The Last Laugh
by The Real Muse
Summary: See author's page for note on further fanfic. Sequel to Dish Served Cold. Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

THE LAST LAUGH  
  
CindyR  
  
[Sequel to "A Dish Served Cold"]  
  
Mawtawk Cemetery was part of a small residential area located on the far tip of Long Island. It was named after an ancient Indian shaman, revered throughout native lore for having summoned nether-spirits during a time of great need, and then forcing them to work in his tribe's behalf against their enemies. The mystic rituals necessary for this task had been performed on the very spot on which the cemetery now sat, and these nether- spirits had been known to revisit the area at regular intervals ever since, their missions more mischievous than helpful. The last time they'd appeared, exactly three-and-one-half years earlier, they'd terrified residents up and down the boundary streets and dropped property values nearly 20%. More recently, mysterious lights and an unearthly wailing had been reported for several days preceding the entities' scheduled visit, something unprecedented in the history of the town. Enraged and apprehensive, the populace had banded together to call in expert assistance.  
  
Pete Venkman unlocked the tailgate of Ecto-1, a reconditioned Cadillac hearse, and paused to glance around at the peaceful landscape surrounding him. The moon was three-quarters full tonight, and lit the cemetery brightly with its silvery hue. The various markers and tombs stood in clear relief among the shadows, and no sound broke the utter serenity of the land save the distant rumble of expressway traffic.  
  
"Boy, this place is really dead," Peter remarked, choosing one of the four proton packs arranged neatly across Ecto's width. "Quiet as a...."  
  
"Don't say it," Winston snapped, nudging Peter aside to collect his own weaponry. "These places give me the creeps."  
  
Peter raised both hands high in the air, his eyes and face going blank. "They're coming to get you, Winston...." he intoned, stalking the black man deliberately.  
  
Winston shuddered and gave him a sharp rap on the arm. "Knock it off, man, that ain't funny." He turned to the two remaining members of the Ghostbusters team and fixed one of them with a scowl. "I should'a never watched that stupid monster movie you rented, Ray. Freddie Does Hollywood." He made a disgusted noise in his throat. "I can't believe that thing grossed over 200 million dollars."  
  
"I read a study once on why people like to scare themselves," Peter commented, slinging a pack across his broad shoulders. "Almost proposed a follow-up study on the subject."  
  
"Why didn't you?" Ray asked curiously, choosing a pack for himself.  
  
Peter shrugged. "Interest died."  
  
Winston rolled his eyes and handed a web-belt and pack to Spengler, who was standing quietly at his right shoulder. "I'm serious, Pete. There's something about this place that I don't like." He studied the region through narrowed eyes, starting slightly when a hand dropped lightly onto his back. "Don't do that, Ray!"  
  
"Take it easy, Winston," Stantz admonished, shaking back a lock of auburn hair from his eyes. "There's never been a report of anything worse than the two Class-5's we're here for. No big deal, is it, Egon?"  
  
The tall blond pulled a meter out of his coverall pocket and flicked it on. "I'm registering our two Class-5's and some ambient PKE," he reported calmly. "Nothing inconsistent with our being in a churchyard."  
  
"Yeah," Venkman piped up. "Our biggest worry is getting stiffed on the bill." He chortled again, earning three answering groans from his fellows.  
  
"Besides, Winston," Ray went on, securing the straps of his pack around his waist, "those movies weren't even real. Whoever heard of stopping a vampire with a formica stake, anyway?" He snorted his opinion at that piece of unprofessionalism, and rubbed at his right wrist. "Although some of the new polystyrenes...."  
  
"I think we're going to have to split up," Spengler interrupted, much to the relief of both Winston and Peter. "We've got one hundred and fifty acres to cover before morning, including the surrounding land, and frankly, I'd prefer to not have to wait another three and a half years for a second chance." He zipped his jumpsuit higher over his throat. "Besides, if I catch a cold, my mother is going to want to spend another week with us." That galvanized everyone into immediate motion  
  
"Egon, buddy," Winston remarked, securing two traps to his belt, "I love your mother like a... well, like a mother, but if she moves in with us again, I'm taking my vacation early if I have to spend it in the Bronx."  
  
"She's not that bad," Ray chided, handing traps to Peter and Egon. "I think it's great when she's around. She's so...."  
  
"Mother-ish?" Peter supplied, stooping to tie his bootlaces.  
  
Ray nodded. "Yeah. I think it's kind of nice."  
  
"You would," Winston muttered, sotto voce.  
  
Egon smiled at his colleagues. "She's very fond of all of you, too, but I think I'll arrange to maintain my current state of health, nonetheless."  
  
Ray paused in the act of rechecking his equipment to eye his surroundings again. "Look at all those graves. Just imagine if all of them decided to come back at once, like in Night of the Living Dead. We'd run out of traps pretty quick."  
  
"We'd really urn our pay," Winston remarked, elbowing Peter in the ribs.  
  
The psychologist grimaced. "Even I wasn't going to use that one," he complained, jabbing Winston back. "But that's the spirit."  
  
"One more like that," Egon snapped, "and you're both coming back here as clients." He turned back to Stantz, who was again absently massaging his wrist while he watched his companions' horseplay. "Is your hand hurting you, Ray?"  
  
Stantz stopped the action immediately, instead drawing his particle thrower and switching the power on. "I'm fine. We'd better get going." He took a single step backward, coming up short against a marble gravestone. "Excuse me."  
  
Peter chuckled. "I don't think he minds very much these days," he remarked, tapping Ray on the arm. "He's kind of laid back... and out."  
  
"Aaargh!" Spengler wailed, throwing up his hands. "That does it. Ray, you're with me. Winston, take Mr. Entertainment there and check out the northwest section. That way."  
  
"Guess you're stuck with Peter's 'black' humor!" Ray chuckled, causing Egon to sigh loudly and mutter, "Et tu, Brute?" under his breath.  
  
Peter stopped to regard the younger man sourly. "Jokes from a man wearing a Beetle haircut?" he retorted, tugging playfully at a strand of Ray's unusually long hair. "What are you doing, trying out for the Punk of the Month club?"  
  
Ray blushed and stepped hurriedly away, then yelped when Peter didn't immediately release his hair. "I forgot. We started working on the new ion tracking device and...."  
  
"You're a fine one to talk," Winston interjected, ruffling Peter's hair in turn. "You with all that mess on top of your head. Man, I could stuff a mattress with this." The psychologist pulled back, growling something uncomplimentary, but was saved the necessity of a formal reply when Egon cleared his throat. Loudly.  
  
"We can discuss your grooming habits later," the blond declared, snagging Ray's wrist and hustling him in the direction of the fence. "Much later, preferably. Let's start with the southern side and work our way toward the center." Ray followed him meekly enough after first passing across the auxiliary PKE meter to Peter, then the two turned along the boundary and disappeared into the trees.  
  
Peter dug a comb out of his breast pocket and ran it through his hair, laughing softly to himself. "That Egon. Never could handle a pun, but plays a wicked practical joke." He grinned in Winston's direction and restowed the comb, then unclipped his thrower and powered it up. "And with that deadpan face of his, he usually carries them off, too."  
  
"Tell me about it," Winston griped, following his companion along a narrow path. "I still haven't forgotten the time he made us all believe he and Slimer were still in each other's bodies. I think we ducked him for two whole days before he finally broke down and told us it was all a joke."  
  
"You mean you ducked him for two days," Peter shot back. "Poor Ray spent the entire afternoon trying to apologize to Slimer!" He laughed again. "You should have seen him in college."  
  
"Who?" Winston interrupted. "Egon or Ray?"  
  
"Egon...." He broke off to navigate his way between two marble cherubs which faced each other across a new mound of earth, jumping the last few feet when the ground beneath him sank several inches. "Uh... You've never heard of a grave actually caving in, have you?" he asked nervously.  
  
Winston shrugged. "Who do I look like, Boris Karloff? Use the path if you're scared."  
  
Peter bristled at that last, but allowed it to pass without comment. "You should have seen Egon in college," he began again. "All sober and grim looking; we used to call him 'Mr. Computer Head,' you know." Winston made noises to the effect that he did not. Peter nodded solemnly. "Yep, true. Naturally, it became my duty to break through that reserve and turn him into a useful, fun-loving human being."  
  
"You mean to make his life as miserable as you could," Winston translated automatically. "Got anything on the meter yet?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "Only that there's something here somewhere." He continued his stroll, Winston at his heels. "Wish you'd been around the time I set him up -- out of the goodness of my heart, you understand -- with Frieda LesMartin. Frieda was maybe the hottest number on campus that year."  
  
"If she was so hot," Winston asked suspiciously, "why didn't you go out with her yourself?"  
  
Peter raised one brow. "Who says I didn't?"  
  
"Oh." Winston fell silent long enough to peek through the grimy windows of a miniature equipment shed, while Peter waited patiently several yards on. Nothing stirred within the shelter and the metal door was padlocked. After a moment, Winston rejoined his companion and they resumed their search.  
  
"Frieda LesMartin," Winston repeated thoughtfully. "Wasn't she the one you kept showing Egon naked pictures of for the week before his big date with her?"  
  
Peter grinned. "He told you about that, did he? Yeah, that was Frieda. Messed his concentration up so bad, he actually made a B-minus on his ancient languages test that Friday. Did he also tell you what happened afterward?"  
  
The older man shook his head. "Can't wait to hear this part, though. I assume Egon actually did go out with Miss Hotstuff?"  
  
"Yep." Peter secured his thrower and drew the PKE meter, giving it an experienced glance. "Over there. Stronger readings from that cluster of bad art over there." He restored the meter to his belt and led the way in the direction indicated. Their boots crunched loudly in the gravel, and both men hurriedly stepped off the path onto the soft grass. "Anyway, Egon not only went out with Frieda, they disappeared for three days. Still don't know where they got to, but the next week, Frieda is showing around naked pictures -- of me. One guess where she got them."  
  
Winston laughed out loud at that. "I'd like to know where Egon got them."  
  
"So," Peter grumbled, "would I. Not that I'm complaining," he added more cheerfully. "It got me dates with half the Omega Chi sorority house."  
  
They strolled on in companionable silence for several minutes, each man alert, senses strained to the utmost for signs of their prey. Winston leaped lightly across a shallow ditch, then turned and unhooked his flashlight, using it to examine the pooled water at the bottom before going on. "You know, Pete," he began nervously, "I really don't like this place. It's kind of... spooky."  
  
That won him an incredulous look. "Spooky?" Peter repeated. "The place is spooky? You want I should explain again just why we're here?"  
  
Though Zeddemore's complexion hid his blush, his voice did not. "Knock it off, Pete. You know what I mean. There's something about this place...." He started at a sound from his left. "What was that?"  
  
"You really are jumpy tonight, aren't you?" Peter asked. He took Winston's arm, turning him to face a small stand of trees from which the flutter of wings could still be heard. "We call them owls, old buddy. Order of Strigiformes."  
  
Now it was Zeddemore's turn to stare. "How the heck did you know that?" he wondered aloud. "Closest I've ever seen you come to a bird is on Thanksgiving."  
  
Peter kicked at a tuft of grass and resumed his walk. "There was this girl back in tenth grade..."  
  
"I should have known," the black man groaned.  
  
"...and she was with this bird watching club...."  
  
"Never mind." Winston waved away the explanation hurriedly. "After Frieda LesMartin, I don't think I can handle another one of your stories right now. Besides, I can guess the rest -- girl, dark night, sound in the trees." He paused. "That must have been twenty years ago; you don't forget much, do you?"  
  
"Didn't forget her," Peter replied dreamily, "or that weekend I snuck off to Fire Island with her birdwatching club. My mother gave me what for, but it was worth...." Just then the PKE meter emitted a loud 'PEEP' and switched itself on. "Game time," Peter muttered, studying the glowing face briefly. "Looks like our target is 40 meters in... that direction."  
  
'That' direction led the two men to several above-ground crypts arranged tastefully beneath a grouping of elms. Peter and Winston approached cautiously, Peter spreading the leaves of a low-hanging branch for a better view.  
  
"There they are," he whispered, upping the switch on his power selector another notch. "Looks like we lucked out and got both of them."  
  
"Think we should radio Egon and Ray?" Winston asked just as quietly.  
  
Peter shook his head. "By the time they got here, these goopers could be long gone." He nudged the other man with his elbow. "Ready? NOW!"  
  
With a double shout the two burst through the concealing foliage, firing simultaneously at the flitting clouds of color which darted among the tombs. One of them screeched loudly, caught in Peter's stream. It swelled, gaining substance, and causing Peter's proton rifle to buck wildly in his hands.  
  
"Yike!" the psychologist yelped, hanging on for dear life. "They're ... stronger ... than we thought!"  
  
Zeddemore ignored him to fire again at his own target. It swooped groundward at the last minute, disappearing into the nearest mausoleum. "Heck, mine ducked out."  
  
"G-good," Peter stuttered, staggering backwards under a particularly vicious feedback. "Give me a hand."  
  
"Roger." Zeddemore added his own stream to Peter's and the entity stopped struggling, helpless in the dual energy web. "I'm throwing out a trap," Winston called, reaching around to his pack.  
  
Venkman braced himself. "Ready!"  
  
An expert toss landed the box-shaped device precisely under the glowing form. Winston stopped, foot poised over the activator pedal to warn "Trap open!" and then brilliant light was cascading upwards, drawing the entity slowly and inexorably down. "Trap... closed!" Winston called, and the entity was gone.  
  
Peter wiped his forehead is sleeve. "One down, one to...."  
  
"Go!" Winston supplied, giving the younger man a shove.  
  
Peter went. The second entity had emerged unnoticed from the crypt, but could be seen bobbing and weaving between and through markers in the distance.  
  
"They probably can't ... leave ... the cemetery," Venkman panted, jumping gracelessly over an open -- and fortunately empty -- grave at the last moment. "If old Mawtawk summoned them...." A squawk from behind interrupted his train of thought, and he turned his head to cast a quick glance over his shoulder, tripping across a tree root in the process. He recovered himself instantly, but this near accident went unremarked by his fellow Ghostbuster, for Winston Zeddemore was gone.  
  
"Winston?" Peter called softly, abandoning his chase for the moment. "Yo, Zed!"  
  
"Right... right here," came a weak voice from below.  
  
Below? Peter advanced cautiously to peer down into the empty grave he'd traversed more seconds earlier. It was dark, but he could still make out the figure groggily pulling itself into a sitting position six feet below. "You okay?" Peter asked, leaping lightly into the pit.  
  
Zeddemore shook his head twice as though to clear it, then groaned. "I'm... not sure," he began through clenched teeth. "I landed on my... shoulder." He cradled his right arm against his chest and groaned again. "Hurts big time."  
  
Peter crouched next to him and ran gentle fingers over the injured appendage. "Dislocated," he pronounced at last. "We're going to need x- rays to be sure."  
  
"Finish getting that gooper first," Zeddemore told him firmly. "I want that sucker to go down bad. I think he led us in this direction on purpose."  
  
Peter took the man's good arm and helped him to rise. "Let's get you out of this hole before we think about anything else," he suggested mildly. He laced his fingers together. "Can you make it?"  
  
"I can make it." Winston stepped into the make-shift stirrup, allowing himself to be propelled out of the grave. Moments later Peter stood next to him.  
  
"Think you'll be okay while I bag us a paycheck?" the psychologist asked, pulling the other to his feet.  
  
Winston nodded. "Go. I'll call Egon and Ray and follow you."  
  
"Right." Giving his companion a bright grin and a reassuring pat, Peter retrieved his particle thrower from its clip and loped off, leaving a disgusted Winston Zeddemore to follow as quickly as he could.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

The southern edge of Mawtawk cemetery was set into the downhill slope of a gentle hill, and held the oldest of the gravesites. Many of the tombs had stood here since the year 1701, when the first Dutch settlers had arrived. It was rumored -- unofficially, of course -- that the settlers had been prevented from farming the land by the regular spirit activity, also why they had decreed it to be holy land, something which it had remained to this day.  
  
Ray Stantz trotted a little ahead of his taller colleague, examining everything around him with bright eyed excitement. Leaving Egon several paces to the rear, he approached a little stand of graves, paused, then burst into their midst, not unlike what John Wayne did in every single ambush scene the Duke had ever filmed. Ray spun, gun ready, then shot an amused Egon a grin. "I just like doing that," he explained sheepishly.  
  
"You do it very well," the blond returned amiably, "but the meter isn't giving us a reading from there."  
  
"Oh, well." Unperturbed, Stantz knelt by one dull gray marker to read the inscription. "Martha Biggs 1726-1730. Consumption. Gee, that's a shame; she was only four years old."  
  
Egon paused at his shoulder, beginning to breath heavily from his walk. "High mortality rate among the early settlers," he explained pedantically. "Only one child in six made it to adulthood in those early days."  
  
Ray stood, swiping ineffectually at the soil which stained his pantlegs. Giving up on the task, he straightened and tapped Spengler on the arm. "I know that, Egon," he said patiently. "I learned it back in the fifth grade."  
  
Then it was Egon's turn to look sheepish. "Sorry. I forgot it wasn't Peter I was talking to. I generally just prattle on until he lets loose one of his put downs." He chuckled richly. "I always wondered if he actually listens to anything I say or if he's spending all that time trying to think up one of his patented Venkman Specials."  
  
"I've heard him quote you later," Ray told him, tugging mightily at a mausoleum's barred door. "And you know Peter -- he doesn't forget anything."  
  
"Except his turn to do the dishes," Spengler retorted, following his colleague around a half buried crypt. "Last night, for example." He nearly ran the younger man down when Ray stopped abruptly and turned around. "What?"  
  
"It was your turn to do the dishes last night," Stantz said softly, a mischievous light dancing in his brown eyes. "Peter did them the day before."  
  
"Oh." Bereft of a more suitable return, Spengler took a few moments during which Ray smothered his snickers to recheck the hillside, paying particular attention to the direction from which they'd come. "Wait a minute, is it my imagination or is that our target coming this way?"  
  
Before Ray had had an opportunity to reply, the communicator clipped to Egon's belt beeped. He unhooked it and raised the instrument to his mouth. "Spengler."  
  
"Zeddemore," a pleasant baritone replied. "Gooper headed your way."  
  
Egon nudged Ray with his elbow, briefly sharing the man's infectious grin. "Already in sight, Winston. We're moving to intercept." He shut off the instrument and reclipped it to his belt. "Back up the hill," he sighed.  
  
Ray adjusted the power switch on his thrower for the dozenth time, then started off, moving fast. "We'd better split up. You go this way, I'll circle over there. We should be able to get it in a cross fire."  
  
"Right."  
  
Stantz took off horizontally across the hillside at a dead run, recklessly weaving through -- and occasionally over -- the various markers dotting the landscape. A copse of firs grew in a closed circle a hundred yards to the left, and Stantz chose that as his pivot point, intending to start up the hill on the far side and so bracket the fleeing entity between himself and Spengler.  
  
The firs stood tall, the result of a hundred years of nurturing, their needles forming an interlocking barrier which protected the center from casual view. Ray brushed his way through the branches and glanced around, orienting himself with the far side in the dense gloom. Six strides took him into the exact middle of the circle and it was there that first he heard the voice.  
  
"The pact is binding."  
  
Ray stopped, cocking his head attentively. "Is someone there?" he asked in a hushed voice. Chill fingers ran up and down his spine, and the hairs along his neck twitched and began to rise. "Where are you?"  
  
"The pact is binding," the voice repeated, very close to Ray's ear. "I will come for you."  
  
A sensation he only now identified as terror constricted Ray's stomach into a knot. Pain flared then in his right hand, and he glanced down. The small burn scar in the very center of his palm glowed brightly, even in the absence of available light. Less brightly but still visible, the jagged white line running up his wrist stood out, disappearing under his sleeve. The particle rifle slipped from numb fingers, hitting the ground with a muffled thump.  
  
"I-it c-can't be you," the occultist stammered, beginning to tremble. "They t-told me you were d-dead."  
  
The darkened grove wavered once and then vanished, replaced by a rough-hewn cave lit harshly by naked bulbs. To the left, Peter Venkman knelt, held upright by a skeletal figure draped in black. Peter's face was raised, and defiance glittered in his emerald eyes.  
  
Ray looked downward, gaping at the blood which flowed from beneath a make- shift bandage swathing his right wrist. His hand was swollen -- obviously broken -- and discolored with bruises. He raised it wonderingly, staring at it with the returning knowledge of pain and despair.  
  
"I'll do it." The toneless words, that defeated tone were his own though Ray's lips remained barely parted, his tongue frozen. "I'll do anything you ask. Please don't hurt Peter."  
  
He'd sensed his tormentor's smug satisfaction in the man's voice. "Do you know what you're saying, Raymond? Are you agreeing to release Samhaine from your containment unit for me?"  
  
"For Peter." Ray looked up briefly then, staring forlornly at his friend's twisted features and blue tinged skin. "Peter," he moaned, curling in on himself. He raised his eyes again, and it was with a sense of numbed horror that he saw himself offer his mangled hand to be engulfed by the scarlet garbed figure of Walter Peck.  
  
As before, reality wavered and faded away, and Stantz was once again in the little grove of firs, sprawled full length in the soft needles carpeting the ground. His hand was aflame, the scars angry but no longer glowing with the demon light of before.  
  
"The contract is sealed." The voice echoed in the still night air, and then Ray knew himself to be alone once more.  
  
Crawling awkwardly away from the trees, Ray made his way to the nearest gravestone and huddled against it, cradling his right hand to his chest. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, muffling the soft whimpers he couldn't suppress.  
  
Overhead, the uncaring moon began its final dip toward the horizon, and once again the hush which cloaked this venerable city of the dead was complete.  
  
***  
  
"Throw out the trap... NOW!" Peter's strident tenor rang clearly, and Egon sprang into immediate action. A trap flew through the air, propelled by a long-armed toss, then for the second time that night a reverse pyramid flowed upwards, entrapping the still struggling nether-creature in an inescapable tapestry of light.  
  
"Trap... closed," Spengler announced, lifting his foot off the activator pedal. The trap snapped shut, leaving both men blinking in the accentuated gloom.  
  
"He was a nasty one," Peter remarked, picking up the trap and handing it to Egon. "Fast, too. I hate it when they're fast."  
  
"Me... too," a seriously panting Spengler managed, accepting the trap. "I didn't... think I was going... to make it up that hill the... fourth time."  
  
His own breathing already under control, Peter turned an amused eye on his older partner. "You know, you're really out of shape," he remarked, thumping the blond between the shoulder blades. "You need to come jogging with Ray and me sometime. Does wonders for the constitution -- and the figure," he added meaningfully, staring at Egon's middle.  
  
Spengler stepped back out of range of Peter's helpful ministrations. "There's nothing wrong with my constitution," he retorted, nonetheless glancing quickly at his abdomen. Satisfied that he hadn't sprouted a pot belly during the last few minutes, he turned his attention to the subject of the chase. "This would have been a lot easier if Ray and Winston had been around. What could have happened to them?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Winston took a spill; his shoulder might be dislocated."  
  
"Is dislocated," a pained baritone corrected from behind. Peter and Egon turned as the black man emerged from the shadows of a massive vault, then Peter hurried forward to help the man sit on the edge of a flat marker. "Sorry I wasn't more help, guys. I couldn't keep up."  
  
"No problem, bro." Peter patted his friend lightly, then cocked his brow inquiringly down the hill. "That still leaves us one short on the administrative level. Yo, Ray?!"  
  
There was no immediate response to Peter's call save the faint echo of his own voice from the surrounding hillside. He tried again, louder. "RAY!"  
  
Still no answer. Peter turned to his colleagues, the amusement gone from his face. "Something must have happened to him. Egon, take Winston back to the car and notify me by radio if Ray's there. I'll start searching in that direction," he jerked his head back down the hill, "and try to track him down."  
  
"I don't need a baby sitter," Zeddemore returned gruffly. "I'll check the car out. Egon, help Peter search. Ray might be hurt."  
  
The blond nodded grimly and turned, then paused. "Something moved over there," he said, pointing towards the boundary fence. The other two followed his line of sight, heaving a collective sigh when a light-clothed figure came into view.  
  
"That's him," Peter acknowledged, sinking down beside Winston. " Man, he scared me."  
  
Egon watched the rapidly closing man with a thoughtful frown. "He was going to circle around and come up from the fenceline. I wonder what happened to him."  
  
Speculation from the others was not forthcoming, however, for Stantz arrived at that moment and stopped to stand hands-in-pockets several feet away.  
  
"What happened to you, man?" Zeddemore demanded, struggling to his feet. "You had us worried."  
  
"I-I'm sorry."  
  
The apology was so low it was barely audible. Peter stepped nearer, examining the younger man as best he could by the rapidly fading moonlight. He could make out the tense stance and bowed auburn head but little more. Finally, he asked, "You okay?"  
  
Ray nodded once. "Yes... I'm sorry...."  
  
A new possibility presented itself to the psychologist, lighting his eyes with suppressed merriment. "Did you get lost?" he asked gleefully. "Mr. Boy Scout?" Ray hung his head even lower and Peter burst into a loud chuckle. "Isn't this one for the books? Ray Stantz, intrepid woodsman, lost in a fenced in cemetery! Good thing we weren't searching any place big -- like our backyard." He clapped the younger man heartily on the back, propelling him towards the main path with a gentle shove. "Come on, Dorothy, let's hit the yellow brick road and get Winston to a hospital before he decides to neutronize the lot of us."  
  
"Read my mind," Zeddemore returned sourly. "Just my luck to get suckered into that hole."  
  
"The real pits," Peter chuckled irrepressibly.  
  
That brought Ray's head up. "You... were hurt?" he asked, his soft voice carrying a trace of alarm. "Bad?"  
  
"Not once I get to a doctor," the black snapped. "Provided you're all through discussing the matter?"  
  
"You heard the man, kiddies," Peter said lightly. "Nearest emergency room and then breakfast. "I could eat a moose."  
  
"He could, too," Winston growled, allowing Venkman to take his good arm. "Not put on a pound, either, the bum."  
  
They all started back up the hill, good natured quips and blue oaths disrupting the quiet. Thus occupied, none of the three noticed the subdued silence of Ray Stantz, who trudged along a few paces behind, his expression shuttered and his thoughts very far away.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Southold General was quiet in these early dawn hours. Winston was admitted immediately and vanished behind the closed doors of the emergency ward, leaving his friends to occupy themselves in the comfortless environs of the waiting room.  
  
Ray, still subdued, retreated to a hard chair in one corner, where he sprawled, hands still in his pockets and his chin sunk on his breast. Considering the hour, Egon and Peter assumed him to be asleep and so contented themselves by talking quietly across the room. They remained thus until the black Ghostbuster reappeared some ninety minute later. Snarling away the offer of a wheelchair, Zeddemore emerged from the hospital's inner chambers, his arm in a sling, his expression forbidding.  
  
"Are you all right now, Winston?" Ray asked, rousing himself and getting to his feet. "How do you feel?"  
  
"What do you think?" Winston growled, rubbing his shoulder. "That doctor has the touch of a mule skinner; thought he was gonna rip it off rather than snap it in."  
  
Ray took a single step backward. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Peter asked sympathetically. "Dislocated my shoulder once; hurt like blazes at first, felt fine a few days later."  
  
"That's not what you told us," Egon pointed out, giving him a sharp look. "You wouldn't even lift your coffee cup for over a week."  
  
Peter grinned. "That was different."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Because it was my shoulder that was hurt."  
  
Winston rolled his eyes heavenward, then stomped for the door, closely followed by his colleagues. "I'm not driving," he snapped by way of a parting shot.  
  
The trip home seemed twice as long as the one up; Peter drove most of the way, trading off with Egon a half hour out of Manhattan. In the backseat, Ray had resumed his bent-headed sprawl, while Winston frankly snored at his side.  
  
Four hours after leaving the hospital the sliding doors of the firehouse opened to receive Ecto-1 and the Ghostbusters home. Wearily, the four emerged from the big car, stretching and yawning with relief.  
  
"Thought we'd never get back," Winston complained, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. "We really ought'a think about staying the night for anything over two or three hours out of town."  
  
"I'm even too tired to take a shower," Peter groaned, jabbing at a stiff muscle in his neck. "I just want to hit the sack."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to shower first?" Egon asked, deliberately stepping upwind.  
  
Venkman regarded his colleague disdainfully, the effect slightly spoiled when his eyes immediately drooped to half mast. "You ain't exactly a spring rose yourself," he grunted, shooing Winston ahead of him up.  
  
Egon dropped the signed invoice on Janine's desk, pausing to acknowledge the woman's presence for the first time. "Good morning. You're in early."  
  
"It's ten-thirty," Peter remarked to no one in particular.  
  
Janine ignored him to smile warmly up at Egon. "Hello, Egon. How'd the cemetery call go?" She gestured vaguely in the direction of the wounded Zeddemore. "Is Winston going to be okay?"  
  
Egon slipped heavily into the chair next to her desk. He reached automatically for the full cup of coffee next to the typewriter and took a heft gulp before answering. "He'll be all right in a couple of days... according to our medical expert here." He shot Venkman a disgusted look; Peter grinned unrepentently back and followed Winston up the stairs. "And the citizens' bureau will be sending a check for payment on Monday...." He broke off to hail Stantz, who was trudging by with both full traps dangling from his left hand. "Ray, you can just leave those, we'll empty them later."  
  
Stantz continued on, unheeding. "It's okay," he replied dully. "I can handle that much, anyway."  
  
"Hello, Ray!" a shrill, cheerful voice called from the ceiling. Seconds later Slimer materialized through the plaster, leaving behind a dripping green stain to mark his passage. He swooped on Ray, arms wide for a welcoming hug, then stopped short at the blank-eyed gaze turned his way.  
  
"Leave me alone, Slimer," Ray snapped, turning his back. "I'm not in the mood." He slipped down the stairs and vanished from sight.  
  
Egon and Janine stared incredulously after him, Slimer hovering three meters off the floor, drooping unhappily.  
  
"Awwww," the little ghost mourned. "Ray's mad?"  
  
"He's just tired, Slimer," Janine soothed, reaching for her coffee. Her hand encountered Spengler's, which was still wrapped around the cup. She hesitated, her manner unaccustomedly diffident, then allowed her fingers to linger where they were.  
  
"Have you ever seen Ray really mad?" the blond physicist pointed out, for once not retreating from Janine's touch.  
  
Slimer floated closer, his 'face' puckered with the effort of thought. "Once. Slimer knocked Peter down. Peter hit his head. Ray maaaad." He let out a long whistle and snapped his fingers, emphasizing the fact.  
  
A devil's light lit the blue eyes, but Egon's features remained impassive, revealing nothing. "Perhaps that's the problem," he suggested innocently. "The fact that you hurt Peter's feelings."  
  
Large orange eyes regarded the blond with horror. "Slimer did? How?"  
  
Egon exchanged a look with a puzzled Janine. "You didn't greet Peter when he came in at all," he chided mildly. "And after Peter came out and said that he was going to hide a treat for you in his clothes... somewhere."  
  
Slimer's face glowed with a mixture of adoration and greed. "Slimer loves Peter!" he chirped, zipping up the stairs.  
  
Egon glanced at his watch. "Three... two... one..."  
  
"AAAAAAGH!"  
  
"Right on time," the physicist approved, chuckling at the outraged yell audible across three floors. "Now he can take a shower."  
  
Janine giggled and tightened her fingers around Egon's hand before releasing him. "He's gonna get you back for that, you know. Sometime... somewhere...."  
  
The other dismissed the warning with a little snort. "He's been trying for years. Just ask him about Frieda LesMartin." He stopped, his expression blanking. "On second thought, maybe you'd better not." He drained the cup, then set it atop a pile of bills on one corner of the desk. "I'd better head upstairs; I'm going to have to search my bed for booby traps before I can turn in."  
  
Janine laughed outright at that. "I'll hold your calls until you and Dr. V. get done playing war zone."  
  
Egon winked. "Good night, Janine." He turned, then paused, a worried frown replacing the merry twinkle. "Ray should have been back by now; he only had to flush two traps."  
  
"He's just tired," Janine repeated, though with less assurance.  
  
"Maybe." The tall scientist hesitated another moment, then resolutely turned to the cellar in search of his friend. He slipped through the safety door and stopped to survey the scene below. The massive containment unit gleamed dully in the harsh glare of the fluorescents, its low hum a reassurance against the dangers within. Scattered haphazardly across the floor lay several pieces of wire and pipe, the remains of some project or another Ray had been working on, involving a new exhaust system for their emergency generator.  
  
But it was not equipment which had brought Egon Spengler the thirteen steps to this high platform, it was the lonely figure occupying a stool against the far wall. Ray sat slumped in his seat, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. Little could be seen of his face, but the man's whole attitude bespoke dejection and despair. Worried, Spengler descended the long staircase to the cellar level, his boots making soft crunching noises on the dirty stone. Ray never looked up, remaining completely unaware of the fact that he was no longer alone until Spengler's large hand clamped his shoulder. "Ray?"  
  
Stantz' reaction to that touch was immediate -- and electric. With a hoarse shout, he catapulted himself out of his seat, coming up short against the wood workbench. Brown eyes stared wildly at Egon's still raised hand, and it was some time before recognition eased the frozen terror in their depths. "E-Egon," he stammered, collecting himself. "I'm sorry. I d-didn't hear you come in."  
  
"That much I deduced," the older man teased, lowering his hand. "I grew concerned when you didn't return from emptying the traps." He gestured vaguely to the workbench, where the still full traps blinked their status. "Is something wrong?"  
  
Ray followed the blond's line of sight, studying the traps for a long moment, automatically shoving both hands into his uniform's pockets. Then, with a visible act of will, he shifted his gaze to Egon's concerned features, and his lips parted as though to speak.  
  
"Yes?" Egon prodded after a minute.  
  
Time elapsed, a dozen heartbeats during which two close friends regarded each other across a span of inches -- or miles. Brown eyes sought blue with a touch of desperation, and then Ray had turned away and the moment was past.  
  
"If you change your mind," Egon offered gently, "I'll be glad to listen."  
  
That won him a wan smile and a soft, "I"m sorry."  
  
"Don't be, Raymond." Egon returned the smile warmly, then picked up the traps and headed for the permanent containment, resigned to respecting what he assumed his young friend's wish to be -- to work out his problems... alone.  
  
***  
  
For the next two days, Ray wandered the firehouse like a ghost, his eyes haunted, his thoughts tumultuous. That eerie voice from the cemetery echoed never-endingly in his thoughts, maddeningly familiar. "The pact is binding," it whispered from every corner of his mind.  
  
"No." Ray's protest rose often to his lips; it emerged as a strangled croak for, try as he might, he was unable to speak of that frightening vision to his friends. Even Egon, who exuded competence and security as an almost palpable aura, could not loose the frozen paralysis which aborted the words before they could emerge.  
  
Also impossible was any attempt of Stantz' to forestall the dire prediction. That first night Egon had caught the dejection in his friend's posture, the trouble in his expression. Had the blond shown up mere minutes sooner he would have seen far more than that -- he would have seen his friend on his knees before the control panel, wracked with pain and fighting for consciousness. After accepting the fact that Peck was indeed returning to claim what Ray had promised -- the release of the evil Samhaine -- the solution had seemed obvious: eliminate any possibility that he could carry out the deed and the pact would be negated. Upon returning to the firehouse, Stantz had moved immediately to put this plan into effect. Accessing the computer-directed security program was child's play -- the system had been designed and built by Stantz himself, and he knew the wiring, programs and components better than any man alive. He'd punched in the proper sequence and soon the screen had flashed its readiness, the question displayed across the bottom half: "RAY STANTZ:14325700 DELETE CODE?"  
  
Ray had smiled his relief at the innocent letters. Samhaine's earlier appearances had resulted directly in many deaths: traffic accidents caused by the free movements of his minions, panic induced suicides, children crushed in the mass rushes for the deceptive safety of the streets. Riots and looting could be added to the long list of mob actions initiated by the arrival of this supernatural entity. And finally there were the damages deliberately caused by the Spirit of Halloween himself. The total effect had been frightening and catastrophic in the extreme. With Ray's codes cancelled, all possibilities of a repeat performance would be eliminated after tonight. His face set, his eyes determined, Ray had reached to punch in that last, final command.  
  
It was then that the pain had hit -- a searing thread that started in his right palm and gradually extended upward nerve by nerve to engulf his entire arm in liquid fire. The pain had been so intense that it had knocked him to his knees, consciousness mercifully fading for a time, and even now his hand throbbed unceasingly, a constant reminder of his helplessness. Since then, any further attempts on Ray's part to eliminate the threat of Samhaine's return had been ruthlessly squashed, not only by a renewal of that searing agony, but also by an unnatural paralysis which both constricted his throat and stayed his hand, leading a desperate and terrified man those first steps on the road back to hell.  
  
***  
  
Peter Venkman tossed once and then opened his eyes to stare upwards into the blackness of the bunkroom and wonder what it was that had awakened him at.... A glance at the glowing face of Egon's clock confirmed that it was, indeed, 4 am. He stared a moment and then cautiously sat up, rubbing his eyes with a balled fist. Directly overhead, Slimer floated, snoring loudly. Peter regarded him warily for a moment before convincing himself that the little mascot was not dripping ectoplasmic slime on his covers like he usually did when he wanted to sleep close to his idol. Peter shook his head at the sight, fascinated yet again at the numerous 'human' traits the ghost had picked up by his continued proximity to the Ghostbusters. No other nether being Peter had ever studied slept -- or snored, for that matter -- although many of them ate human food as a matter of preference.  
  
He next transferred his attention to the other occupants of the room, wincing at the chorused rumbles coming from three corners. Between Slimer, Egon and Winston's snoring, the noise level approached that of LaGuardia's busiest runway during the rush hour. It was a wonder that they all didn't wake themselves up far more frequently than they did. One voice was missing from the lineup, however -- the slightly softer tones which had always identified the sleeping state of the team's youngest member.  
  
Peter carefully ducked Slimer's hovering form, frowning at the still-made bed of his friend. An unabashed TV addict, it was not unusual for Ray to stay up to catch a late movie, but 4 am was late even for him. A picture flashed in Peter's thoughts, that of his friend's face the night before, the distress lurking behind the dulled brown eyes, the deep seated weariness dragging the man's every step. No amount of questioning or coaxing had persuaded Stantz to open up, and now Peter worried, fighting a sense of impending peril which he sensed was somehow tied in with Ray's unidentified gloom.  
  
Disdaining his slippers and robe, Peter padded barefoot through the short hallway, pausing at the top of the spiral staircase for whatever it was that had awakened him to repeat itself. At first he heard only the nightsounds of the busy city -- an almost living pulse which throbbed in easy harmony to Peter's own. City born and bred, Peter dismissed that instantly as something far too familiar to have ever affected his own sleep patterns.  
  
Then he heard it again, recognizing the low cry that had awakened him: it was Ray and he was in trouble.  
  
He descended the stairs three at a time, then six running steps brought him to the still dressed figure tucked into a corner of the living room sofa. Ray had slipped sideways until he could pillow his head against the armrest; beyond that he'd made no concession to comfort. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest and his every muscle sang of tension and unhappiness, something rare in the extreme in the normally cheerful man.  
  
Peter stood breathing heavily and regarding his friend with a mixture of annoyance and relief playing in his green eyes; Ray had probably had fallen asleep during one of those horror movies he favored and was now paying the price with one lulu of a nightmare. Smiling wryly, Peter had stretched his hand out to shake the younger man awake, when he noticed that Ray's face glistened in the dim light of the window. Very gently, Peter touched the unshaven cheek; his fingers came away wet. Tears? Concurrent with that discovery was the realization that both lights and television were off. What was Ray doing sitting alone in a dark room all night crying?  
  
Ray shifted and whimpered softly, and his spoken words froze Peter where he stood.  
  
"I'll do anything you ask," the occultist whispered, "only please don't hurt Peter."  
  
Venkman recoiled as though he'd been struck. The words and tone were familiar -- horribly familiar, recalling a night of pain and terror he'd pushed back into the darkest recesses of his mind many months before. Rage welled up, as well as a soul devouring fury that even the psychological therapy Winston had arranged for them had not been able to dispel. And with the rage rose a face and a single, loathsome name:  
  
Walter Peck.  
  
The very name resurrected memories that Peter had banished from his consciousness, but which still dwelled eternally inside his soul. Images flashed by, a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, searing agony and ultimate despair.  
  
For the briefest instant, Venkman again knelt at the feet of a scarlet- robed man, tall and fair, whose complacent smile never wavered while Ray, unconscious in Peter's arms, dripped away his life's blood from a wrist slashed so badly it would take a dozen stitches and two operations to restore.  
  
Hatred replaced the fear, hatred, as well as a surge of anger directed at Ray himself for bringing these emotions to the fore. Peter stared hard- eyed at the sleeping man for a long moment, vacillating between the desire to flee back to the safety of his own bed and his own more pleasant dreams, and the one to wake his friend, rescuing him from the horrors he now relived.  
  
Peter took a step backwards, then two, but another whimper from the sleeping man halted his feet where they were. In an instant, Peter had flung himself to his friend's side and slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him up and shaking him once. "Wake up, Ray," he ordered in a no- nonsense voice. "You're having a nightmare."  
  
Wide brown eyes flew open in an instant, fixing Peter with a duplicate of the look he'd given him five months earlier, on emerging from Peck's drug- induced illusion and learning that Peck had not yet killed the psychologist as he'd promised to do. "P-Peter?" Ray whispered, grief and joy merging in his tears. "I'm s-sorry."  
  
"Oh, man," Peter replied, pulling the other roughly into his arms. "It was a dream, Ray, just a dream."  
  
"Peter...." Ray returned the embrace briefly and then pulled away, swiping shame-facedly at his eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Peter. I... I must have been dreaming. Did I wake you?"  
  
"No." He let Ray retreat back to his corner, the lie tripping facilely off his own lips. "It's all right, I was on my way to the kitchen for some milk." He rubbed at his abdomen. "Upset stomach." That much at least isn't a lie, he thought ruefully. It's certainly upset enough now.  
  
Ray leaned forward, running a hand through his auburn hair, brushing it back out of his eyes. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I said it was all right," Peter reminded him, sitting back. "You want something to eat?"  
  
Ray shook his head.  
  
"Then how about crashing," Peter suggested carefully. "You look like you haven't slept in awhile."  
  
Again Stantz shook his head. "I... think I'll just watch some TV. There's ... something on I want to see."  
  
Having been taught by a master of the arts of deception, Peter Venkman could recognize a con by some of the best in the business -- something Ray Stantz was definitely not. Peter, however, allowed the untruth to pass unchallenged, divining correctly that he would accomplish nothing save upsetting his already distressed friend still further. He hesitated and then rose gracefully to his feet. "Good night, then," he said, tousling Ray's long hair affectionately.  
  
"Good night, Peter." Stantz' voice was shaken and resigned, and Peter reluctantly returned to his own bed and the dreams which were not quite so pleasant for the rest of the night.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

Four months earlier:  
  
The Ghostbusters had suffered much during the weeks immediately following Walter Peck's brutal assault on them. Winston had gone back to the therapist he'd visited after his time in Viet Nam, needing to come to terms with the necessity of killing Peck's murderous servant, Ali. It was at Zeddemore's urging that the other three had agreed to attend the group sessions, as well; Peck's physical and psychological torture had left scars that would take a long time to heal, if indeed they ever did.  
  
The group -- Vet-Care -- had been formed to assist combat veterans overcome the delayed stress related symptoms generated by their time overseas, but the therapy was equally applicable to anyone who had gone through a situation so unendurable that they afterward suffered the backlash of the mind's rebellion. This latter definition applied to the Ghostbusters, who had survived the worst that an evil and demented soul could hurl against them. Now into their fourth week of therapy, they'd relaxed considerably, even to the point of sharing in the discussions of the others in the group, although carefully shying away from the reason they were there themselves.  
  
Peter, a research psychologist himself and understanding the processes by which healing could be effected, had offered much advice and assistance all around, drawing out many of the veterans with gentle questions and providing comfort in the way of sympathy and understanding. Even the group moderator, Dr. Greg Lambert, had expressed appreciation for the help Venkman was rendering the veterans, yet Peter would speak exceedingly little of his own trauma, and Ray would speak not at all.  
  
Indeed, the occultist had said barely two words over the weeks that the Ghostbusters had met with Lambert's group, attending at all only because of his promise to do so and Winston's insistence that he not back out. He always sat in the back, as far away from the circle as he could manage without leaving the room altogether. Head lowered and eyes veiled, he would listen in utter silence, only looking up occasionally to stare sadly at Peter before returning to his own dark thoughts. Peter stayed close by his side, and Egon stayed close to them both, hovering protectively like an anxious mother, something the two younger men found both irritating and comforting at once.  
  
Familiar with the benefits of talking his problems through in such an environment, Winston had so far been the only one to broach the subject at all. "...and I realize there was nothing else I could have done," he explained to the group of a dozen men gathered in a small room at the VA Center, "but I just can't seem to accept that again. After 'Nam...."  
  
"'Nam changed us all," a short, dark man interjected. "Some guys it turned hard kill ya as soon as look at ya."  
  
Another rose, a redhead, and began to pace the floor with short nervous steps. "And some of us can't stand to swat a fly anymore. Funny how it takes everyone different, isn't it?"  
  
Tony Buresch, stocky and genial, took center stage then, casting the Ghostbusters a single, calculating look before turning to the group. "Viet Nam certainly changed me," he complained, drawing on his fourth cigarette in the last hour. "Sometimes when my boss, Mr. Vaslov, gets on my case about my crew, I want to... I don't know... do something to him, but I...."  
  
Peter leaned forward to rest his elbows on his denim-covered knees. "Have you tried talking to him about it?" he asked reasonably. "Discussed the matter with him on an individual basis?"  
  
"I tried, but he don't listen, and I got a wife and kids so I can't even quit." Buresch broke off to shoot Peter a direct look. "You know what it's like to be in a no-win situation -- to be helpless."  
  
Peter drew in a sharp breath and Winston twisted until he could stare at the younger man, then looked beyond Peter to exchange a concerned look with Egon, sitting on Ray's far side. "That was what was worst for you, wasn't it, Pete?" Winston asked pointedly, catching on to Buresch's strategy. "Being so helpless?"  
  
Venkman cast him a single enigmatic look, then slowly nodded. "If there'd been... something I could have done," he began, his voice tight. "Anything...."  
  
"You could have given that guy what he wanted," Lambert commented from the side. "You had that option."  
  
Peter shook his head. "Samhaine is too powerful. He nearly destroyed the entire city that first time. If he gets free again...." He shuddered. "A lot of people were hurt and killed when he was released from the Druid stone. Letting him out again would have been the equivalent of personally murdering millions."  
  
"He has no regard for humanity at all," Egon said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. They immediately fell forward again; he sighed and ignored them. "To Samhain, we were insects -- nuisances to be exterminated without remorse."  
  
"And, man, he tried his best," Winston added, rising to his feet. "Only thing that saved our butts was that Egon noticed Samhain's weakness to light. Without that, this whole world would have gone down."  
  
Egon shrugged modestly. "It was the only logical thing to do. Unfortunately, he was ready for that the second time around -- and he learns from his mistakes; we might not find a weakness next time."  
  
"Any way this Peck guy can try again?" Buresch asked nervously.  
  
Egon ran a thumb up and down his suspenders thoughtfully. "I'd say not. The entities Peck was serving are known to exact a high price for failure. Peck's disappearance suggests that they collected on a permanent basis."  
  
"That's what Peck was asking for," Peter continued as though no one had spoken. "The end of the world, and he was willing to do... anything... to get it."  
  
"Including torture?" Lambert asked when the psychologist paused.  
  
Peter nodded. "He used... illusions. My... hands...." He swallowed and clenched his fists tightly in his lap. "He made me think... made me live through... what he did...." He raised both hands to his face, staring at them as though reliving the illusion of the burning hell Peck had plunged him into -- a literal hell of fire and agony and melting flesh.  
  
Winston clapped a large hand on the psychologist's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Come on back, Pete," he snapped. "It was a trick -- a cheap, slimy trick."  
  
Peter blinked twice and lowered his hands. "It was real," he insisted, glancing up again. "For as long as it lasted, it was real." He paused to run his sleeve across his damp forehead. "What I remember best, though," he went on after a minute, "is Peck's smile -- that smug leer he never lost the whole time...."  
  
"The whole time what?" Lambert prodded again.  
  
Peter swallowed. "The whole time Ray was... dying." He turned his head slowly until he could see the man sitting at his side. Ray stared back, his large eyes dark against skin the color of chalk. "You were killing yourself and Peck was enjoying it."  
  
Ray huddled in on himself, his bandaged hand clutched tightly to his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, dropping his eyes. "You were already dead and.... I'm sorry."  
  
"It was a trick," Winston repeated sideling over a step. He placed his right hand on the back of Ray's neck, not letting go of Peter's shoulder with his left. "Peck was playing head games to break you down. That slimeball," he added more quietly.  
  
Egon hesitated, his troubled blue eyes flicking between Ray and Peter and then back again. Finally, he stretched his long arm around Ray's shoulders in a curiously protective gesture. "He's right, Raymond," he began soothingly. "It was only the drugs that made you think we were dead." Stantz didn't raise his head. "You don't have to think about it anymore," Egon persisted, a note of helplessness coloring his deep timbres. "None of it was real."  
  
That snapped Peter's head up. "Nothing was real?" he repeated, astonished. Anger flared, glinting in Peter's green eyes like the facets of a gemstone. His hand snaked out in a sudden movement, grasping Ray's right wrist and pulling it up. "What do you call this?!"  
  
Ray gasped as the stitches from his recent operation pulled. Peter released him at once. "What do you know about it anyway," he rapped with unaccustomed venom. "Peck never touched you."  
  
Egon froze, some undefinable emotion flashing across his sharp-planed features, then it was gone so quickly it was barely there at all. "Maybe not, Peter," he began quietly, "but I do know what it's like to sit for a day and a half in a filthy cell without food or water or any idea what will be happening to me. I know what it's like to stand helplessly by while two dear friends are dragged off to face God alone knows what." He tightened his arm around Ray's shoulders, but it was Peter's eyes he held, the light sparkling golden shards off his lenses. "I know what it's like to hear them screaming, and to know that I'm next for whatever horrors they're facing. I know...."  
  
"Egon...." Peter began in a choked voice.  
  
The physicist rushed on, transferring his gaze to the trembling man encircled in his arm. "I know what it's like to find them bloody and dying and half mad, to watch them hurting later and to ache inside myself because there's nothing I can do to help them." He lifted his head, again meeting Peter's stricken gaze. "No, Peter, I don't know what it's like to be tortured, but I do know what it's like to hurt."  
  
"Egon, I'm... sorry." Green eyes suspiciously bright, Peter grasped Egon's bony arm, his fingers biting deep. "I didn't mean it -- you know I didn't."  
  
Egon smiled gently. "I know you didn't. I just... I didn't realize...." He broke off, adjusting his glasses with his right hand, holding Ray tighter with his left. "I didn't realize that I... did feel that way until now," he admitted at last. "I felt so helpless." He shook his head, his smile fading away. "I don't like feeling helpless -- or scared."  
  
"Know what you mean," Peter muttered, patting Egon's arm.  
  
Ray moved suddenly, shrugging himself free of Egon's tight grip and gaining his feet. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Excuse me." He slipped around Peter's automatic snatch, brushed past Dr. Lambert, and was gone.  
  
The rest of the group watched him leave with varying expressions of puzzlement and concern. Egon sighed deeply and stood. Peter, too, rose, standing to block both Egon and Winston from the door. "I think you'd better let me talk to him alone," he suggested quietly. "He needs me now."  
  
Egon and Winston exchanged worried looks, then Egon nodded. "You'd better hurry," was all he said. Winston clapped Peter on the shoulder and the psychologist took off at a run, edging past Lambert's portly form and disappearing through the door.  
  
Lambert left his post to approach the two remaining Ghostbusters. "Is he going to need help?" he asked worriedly. "If Ray is that upset...."  
  
Winston cut him off with a gesture. "Peter can handle Ray," he assured the older man. "Right now, I think he's the only one who can."  
  
***  
  
Peter flew through the hospital's fire exit, then paused to look around. The sun had long since set, but the streetlamps up above and traffic's headlamps all around lit the scene as brightly as day and enabled him to spot Ray's green shirt almost at once. Peter took off at a run, catching up to his friend before Ray had gone a full block.  
  
Ray didn't look up when Peter fell into step at his side, but he must have been aware of the other's presence, for his shoulders hunched tighter, and he kept his head turned away. He continued to walk, however, his eyes firmly fixed on the dirty pavement, his right hand clutched tightly in his left, and Peter walked with him, his stride measured, his whole attitude one of unwavering support.  
  
In this way and in utter silence the two covered several blocks, crossing Dumont Street and then, by unspoken consent, turning into a small park, which was nearly hidden from the street by brown shrubs. Ray wandered from the central path, strolling aimlessly around the playground until he came up short against the dull metal bars of a jungle jim. He stopped automatically as though not completely registering what it was that blocked his progress, then he sighed and leaned wearily against its supporting pole. "I'm not going back there, Peter," he said in a hoarse voice. "I'm sorry."  
  
Peter rested one elbow against the jungle jim, turning slightly so that he could face his friend. "Group isn't for everybody," he remarked casually. "We shouldn't have insisted that you go if you weren't comfortable there. I'll talk to Winston for you; it'll be all right."  
  
Ray nodded his thanks without looking up.  
  
"It was pretty rough in there tonight," Peter went on, leaning back to stare at the barely visible stars. "I didn't know Egon felt like that."  
  
"Neither did he," Ray said quietly.  
  
"Guess I spilled my guts, too." Peter ran a hand across his face. "I couldn't seem to stop myself -- everything just came out." He grinned wryly. "That Tony is a pretty smart customer. Even I didn't recognize that he was pushing my buttons until it was all over."  
  
"It was ... a bad time for you," Ray said, very softly. "Horrible."  
  
Peter transferred his gaze from the distant heavens to the man at his side, his eyes sharpening. "Not just for me," he remarked carefully. "He hurt you even worse."  
  
"Me?" Ray scuffed a white sneaker in the dirt, raising a little cloud. "No more than I deserved. No more than anyone else would have hurt if I'd let Samhaine out ... like I promised."  
  
"Samhaine didn't get out," Peter reminded him. "Everything worked out okay."  
  
"No thanks to me." Ray hunched his shoulders again, hanging his head. "I agreed to let him out, Peter. I knew what he could do -- I saw the dead bodies on TV -- and I still agreed." His shoulders quivered and Peter straightened away from the bars. "Like personally murdering millions," Ray finished faintly.  
  
"I didn't mean you." Peter's protest was immediate and vehement.  
  
Ray went on, unhearing. "I agreed, Pete," he repeated bitterly. "I begged Ali earlier. I ... gave up to Peck." He dashed his bandaged arm across his eyes, his voice dropping. "Not much of a man, am I? No backbone at all."  
  
Peter stared, speechless with surprise for a full minute. "You can't really believe that?" he demanded, finding his voice. "After what you went through...."  
  
"You didn't give up." The words were a flat accusation directed not against the psychologist but against himself. "You didn't give up," Ray went on, swallowing heavily. "Even after what he did to you... You didn't give up. I knew you wouldn't."  
  
"I... wanted to." Peter's admission was low and reluctant. He raised one hand in a vague gesture, then dropped it wearily back to his side. "I wanted to but... I ... couldn't."  
  
"I did." Ray glanced up for the briefest instant, his expression so full of self-loathing that the psychologist actually flinched. Then Ray's eyes welled over and he turned away, offering his friend his back. "How can you even stand to look at me, Peter?" he whispered brokenly. "I can't."  
  
Peter stepped forward slowly and wrapped his arms around the shaking shoulders. He tugged firmly until Ray turned, though not raising his head. "Don't hurt, Ray," he begged helplessly, the pain in his heart spilling over into his voice. "Please don't hurt -- not like this."  
  
He held on as Ray slipped to his knees, Peter going with him into the dust. Ray covered his face with his uninjured hand, his voice shaking so badly he could barely make himself heard. "I agreed, Peter. To kill all those people ... my fault... because I was so weak. Not even a man...."  
  
Peter sniffed, a tear trailing its path down his own cheek. "Don't. That's not .. how it happened." He gathered the other man into his arms, his own face naked with grief, and Ray went to him, burying his face in the material of Peter's jacket.  
  
"It wasn't your fault," Peter whispered over and over.  
  
"My fault," Stantz repeated, openly crying now. "Not even worth...."  
  
"Stop it!" Peter's arms tightened around his trembling friend, the roughness in his voice belied by the compassion in his green eyes. "Nothing you could have done."  
  
But his words fell on deaf ears for Ray only shook his head and curled in on himself, a small ball of unrelenting, unforgiving misery.  
  
Peter let him cry, holding him tightly and making little soothing noises in his throat, his own lip scissored between his teeth in a futile effort at control.  
  
It was a long time later that Ray's tears slowed. He dashed his sleeve across his eyes and made to pull out of Peter's grip, but the brown haired man held firm and Ray soon subsided, slipping his bandaged arm around Peter's waist. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered, the phrase more litany than apology. "I'm sorry."  
  
Peter lowered his head until his cheek rested against Ray's tangled hair, even his iron will unable to prevent another tear of his own from spilling over to be lost in his friend's auburn strands. "It was for me," he murmured, so softly that only Ray could have heard. "You did it for me."  
  
Ray wrapped his other arm around the psychologist's chest and gave a long, shuddering sigh but did not speak, and after a moment Peter went on, a note of wonder in his hoarse tones. "In all my life," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "no one has ever loved me that much." He turned his head, burying his face in Ray's hair. "You gave up everything -- your self- respect, your life -- everything... for me."  
  
"I love you, Peter," Ray returned simply, wearily. "I couldn't stand for him to hurt you again. Even if it meant ... all those others.... I should have died then. I should have died."  
  
"For me." The words were repeated with something akin to reverence. The two clung to each other a long moment before Peter finally raised his head, tilting it to catch a glimpse of his companion's face. "Ray... doesn't the reason you agreed count for ... anything?"  
  
Ray took a deep breath, his voice still wobbly and full of despair. "I don't understand."  
  
"Why did you agree to release Samhaine?" Peter asked. Ray drew a little apart, hanging his head, but Peter locked his arms tight around his shivering friend, refusing to let him withdraw. "I need to know, Ray," he persisted, very gently. "Was it for me?"  
  
Ray nodded and Peter sighed deeply. "And do you think that I was worth the price?"  
  
Ray's convulsive shivering stilled for a single instant and his head came up. He searched Peter's face intently; Peter waited, meeting that desperate gaze silently, affection and acceptance turning his eyes from a brilliant emerald to a soft jade. Finally, Ray nodded. "Yes," he whispered softly.  
  
"And do you ... regret it?" Peter prodded expectantly.  
  
Ray searched his face again. He was obliged to blink several times to clear his vision and stray tears detached themselves from his lashes and wended their way down his cheeks. "No," he decided at long last. "I-I'd ... do it ... again."  
  
Peter's face glowed with for once unshielded, raw emotion. "I know you would, kid," he returned, smiling fondly. Ray met his gaze, unable and unwilling to turn away from the open love in the other's face. It was captivating and heart stopping -- Peter Venkman, bereft of his emotional shields.  
  
"I know you would," the psychologist repeated, his smile fading. "You're the only one who would."  
  
"Your parents," Ray began, sniffing.  
  
Peter shook his head. "My Dad ... he's a great guy, but even I can't trust him to ... be there for me." The admission came hard but unhesitatingly, evidence of the state of total honesty which now existed between the two.  
  
"He loves you," Ray offered timidly.  
  
Peter managed a half smile. "He loves me," he conceded. "Mom, too, even though...." He shrugged. "I guess I'm too much like Dad; we never did really understand each other. But I..." He swallowed heavily, his sharp green eyes never leaving Ray's. "No one's ever cared enough about me to give up what you did. No one." He impulsively pulled his friend close again and Ray hugged him back, a spark of life in his dulled brown eyes that hadn't been there for many weeks.  
  
"I haven't had anyone to even care if I was alive since I was ten," Ray confessed, broaching a subject he'd never once brought up in all the years they'd been together. "My parents went away so long ago. And the Hanley's...."  
  
"Your foster family?"  
  
Ray nodded. "No one else in town wanted to take me in, and the Hanley's got money to let me stay there."  
  
"Did they hurt you?" Peter asked gently. Ray shuddered and Peter tightened his grip around the younger man's shoulders. "Those sons of...."  
  
"It doesn't matter, Peter," the occultist said quickly. "They just ... it was a job is all. They didn't care -- no one cared, not until I met you and Egon." He turned his face away, a slight flush touching his cheeks. "I ... couldn't give that up, Peter. I couldn't."  
  
"You'll never have to," Venkman swore, unheeding of the listening Fates.  
  
The two held each other a long moment and then pulled apart. Ray smiled shyly up at his friend and Peter's returning grin was sunshine itself. "How about we get out of this dump and go home?" the psychologist suggested, settling back on his heels. "Dirt and Peter Venkman are mutually exclusive terms."  
  
Ray nodded and climbed laboriously to his feet, Peter following suit.  
  
"We'll have to flag a taxi," Venkman added, steering his friend towards the road with an arm around his shoulders. "I really don't feel like hiking halfway across the city right now."  
  
"But we've already been walking a long time ... haven't we?" Ray protested doubtfully. "Aren't we nearly home now?"  
  
Peter gestured vaguely at the nearest street sign, which was lit from behind by the neon glare of a pool hall. "We would have been," he commented ruefully, "if we'd been walking in the right direction."  
  
As there was nothing to be said to this, the taxi was quickly summoned and the two were preparing to climb in when Peter halted his companion by laying a warm hand on his shoulder. "Ray?"  
  
"Yes, Peter?" Stantz replied, glancing up at him apprehensively, his body tensed for the worst.  
  
Peter paused but his words were without a trace of hesitence. "I love you, too, Ray. Don't ever doubt it."  
  
Ray didn't answer but the adoration in his brown eyes warmed Peter the entire way home.  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

The Present:  
  
Peter sat tensely on the edge of Janine's desk, the telephone clapped firmly to his ear. "...4-1-6," he finished in a strained voice. "Expiration date June, '93." He waited, his knuckles white around the receiver. "It is?" he asked incredulously. "I do?" Another pause, then he slammed down the receiver and leaped to his feet, a joyous "YEAH!" filling the garage. "I GOT 'EM!" he cheered, grabbing a passing Janine and hugging her soundly. "I got 'em!"  
  
"Got what?" the secretary asked, disengaging herself by the simple expedient of kicking Peter's shin hard. "Besides a head full of mush, I mean."  
  
Peter winced and released her, stooping slightly to massage his bruised shin. "Tickets to the Aretha Franklyn concert for Saturday night! Those tickets have been sold out for months!"  
  
"Then how did you get them?" Winston demanded, emerging from under Ecto's hood to give the psychologist an envious look. "Who'd you con this time?"  
  
Pete pulled himself up, offended. "I managed to... 'convince' a buddy to move my name up on the waiting list. Some poor schmuck just cancelled and I got his tickets."  
  
"You lucky so-and-so." Winston's grin and congratulations were both genuine. "Leave it to you to score tickets to the hottest show in town! Don't suppose you want to... sell them?" He rubbed his injured shoulder meaningfully, his face hopeful.  
  
Peter ignored the pathetic display. "Ain't no way this boy is gonna miss seeing the Queen of Soul," he stated emphatically. "Besides, I thought I'd take Ray along. He's starting to look like an abused cocker spaniel."  
  
"He has been kind of down for a couple of days," Janine agreed. She settled herself at her desk and picked up an unpaid bill, frowning at the brownish stain which adorned its middle. "C'mon, Egon, I can't even read the total."  
  
Just then the sound of footfalls heralded Ray's approach from the upper levels. With a mischievous wink at his companions, Peter flattened himself against the wall directly beneath the staircase, waiting until Ray had reached street level before pouncing. He snagged Ray around the waist, lifting and spinning him around in one lithe movement, whooping like a banshee all the while.  
  
"Good news, buddy!" he said cheerfully, releasing the startled man in the middle of the room. "The Queen of Soul is playing the Garden Saturday and Uncle Petey got great seats!"  
  
Ray stumbled slightly when Peter released him, catching his balance against Janine's desk. "What?" he asked, staring blankly at the grinning faces flanking him on either side. "Who?"  
  
"Aretha!" Peter grabbed Ray by both shoulders and gave him a playful shake. "The Queen of Soul! Come on, Ray, get with the program here."  
  
"What program?" Stantz demanded, finally making sense of Peter's happy burble.  
  
Peter sighed. Still gripping Ray's shoulders he leaned closer, speaking slowly as though to a backwards child. "Aretha Franklyn. Playing Madison Square Garden. Saturday."  
  
"I got that part," Ray replied, stepping back a pace. "So what?"  
  
"So...." Not letting Ray pull away, Peter yanked him closer, getting him in a light choke hold. "So you're going with me, kid. We're gonna groove with the Queen of Soul!"  
  
"Why would you want to take me?" Ray twisted, trying to dislodge Peter's tenacious hold. The psychologist only clung tighter, whooping again. "I thought you were going to take Patty with you."  
  
"Nope! Gonna take you with me." He managed to shrug modestly while twisting Ray's arm behind his back. "Patty doesn't need any... persuasion. She's already crazy about me. Besides, I'd rather go with you, anyhow."  
  
Ray stopped struggling. "I... can't go, Peter. I'm sorry."  
  
This so surprised the psychologist that he immediately ceased his playful attempt to turn Ray into a pretzel and released him. "You doing bad drugs or what?" he demanded. "Since when do you turn down a chance like this?" He frowned and grabbed Ray's right wrist. "Are you feeling...?"  
  
"Let me GO!" Ray snatched back as though Peter's touch burned. His hand impacted the desk with a sharp crack, forcing a little cry from between his teeth. "Don't, Peter!" he gasped at Peter's instinctive movement in his direction.  
  
Pete froze, his green eyes narrowing. "Look, pal, if you have a problem with me then just spit it out and be done with it. Your attitude is getting old, if you catch my drift."  
  
Ray stood rubbing his hand, his eyes fixed firmly on the concrete floor. Silence reigned for several minutes, the tension in the room growing exponentially with each breath. Finally....  
  
"I'm sorry, Peter." Ray's voice was so low it was barely audible against the busy street sounds from without.  
  
Peter's expression didn't waver one iota. "Then you want to tell me what's going on? I'm a little tired of living with a refugee from Zombie City." Ray raised his head, flashing Peter a single glance. His eyes held sadness and fear and a queer determination -- a combination that transformed Peter's angry expression into one of concern. "Tell me what's wrong," he pleaded, unaccountably frightened.  
  
Ray smiled gently and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Peter, Winston, Janine." He turned slightly to include the two astonished onlookers. "I just had... to work something out is all. It's okay now."  
  
Peter hesitated. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly.  
  
"You know you can tell us anything, don't you?" Winston added, touching Ray lightly on the back.  
  
"Sure." Ray nodded. "Saturday sounds great, Pete. Excuse me... I've got some work to do." He offered the three a warm smile, then disappeared down the stairs.  
  
Peter sank heavily into a naugahyde chair and lifted his feet up onto the desk. Janine glared but said nothing. "I hate it when he gets obscure," the psychologist complained peevishly. "I'm not used to not understanding him."  
  
"I never did understand him," Winston said, rubbing at his still sore shoulder. "Kid drives me crazy sometimes."  
  
"Very disturbing." That powerful bass drew all heads towards the stairs, where a lanky blue-clad figure stood, unnoticed until now. Egon left his post on the first landing to join the little group clustered around the reception desk. "You couldn't get anything out of him at all, Peter?"  
  
The younger man shrugged. "You heard him. Problem gone, everything is fine and he's sorry." He frowned. "If he apologizes to me one more time, I'm going to slug him."  
  
"I think you should just leave him alone," Janine remarked, adjusting her skirt while keeping one eye cocked in Egon's direction. "After all, he said he's got things worked out; why don't you give the poor guy a break?"  
  
Peter transferred his frown to the woman, but there was no heat in his words. "Because he's apologizing to me, Janine."  
  
Light dawned. "Like he did after...."  
  
"Walter Peck," Winston supplied grimly.  
  
Peter nodded. "He's showing all the classic symptoms of a major relapse. The post traumatic stress induced by... what happened...." His throat closed up, choking him off for a moment. "Sometimes a victim gets flashbacks," he finished tiredly.  
  
Winston laid a calloused hand on Peter's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "He'll make it through, Pete, just like before."  
  
"Sure he will, Dr. V.," Janine added softly.  
  
Peter sighed. "I don't know. I've tried everything, but he won't -- or can't -- pull out of that mood he's in."  
  
"He agreed to go with you to see Aretha Franklyn," Janine pointed out, rescuing a stack of invoices from Peter's heavy boots.  
  
"Reluctantly. I thought I could bully him into saying something but...."  
  
"I thought you had something up your sleeve." Egon interrupted rounding the desk until he could see Peter's face. "I don't think I've ever heard you speak so harshly to Ray before this."  
  
Peter sighed and spread his hands in a weary gesture. "It didn't work. And I... a couple of nights ago.... He's been dreaming about ... what happened." Venkman ran a hand through his thick hair, impatiently brushing it to the side. "I'm dreaming about it myself lately," he admitted, avoiding his companions' eyes. "But I think it's worse for him."  
  
Janine snorted with a touch of her customary impatience. "Well, I'm getting tired of his attitude," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "He's been like this ever since that stupid graveyard job you guys.... What's up?" This last was in response to the three startled glances which swung her way.  
  
Egon adjusted his glasses, then began to pace the room with measured, methodical steps. "That was when it started," he agreed. "He was unusually quiet the entire trip back."  
  
"Before that," Winston remembered. "He got lost and we couldn't get a word out of him afterwards."  
  
Peter tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the ill-used stack of invoices; the secretary sighed and whisked them into a drawer. "We're only assuming that's what happened," he said as much to himself as to the others. "I was teasing him about getting lost, but he never once admitted it."  
  
Egon paced another thirty seconds before stopping abruptly not six inches from Peter's shoulder. "That must be it," he decided aloud. "Whatever is wrong with Ray must have to do with that graveyard or something he saw there."  
  
"But what?" Winston asked, resting his right hip on the desk. "What could there be about an old settlers' cemetery that could have affected him that badly? I mean, you know Ray -- everything is one big adventure." He cast a frowning glance toward the cellar stair and shook his head. "It's a cinch he isn't going to tell us; I've never seen him this close-mouthed over anything."  
  
"Post-traumatic stress is nothing to play with," Peter stated firmly, "and if there was something there that is causing these flashbacks I'm going to find out what it is if I have to shake it out of him."  
  
"No need to go that far, yet," Egon protested mildly. He glanced at his watch. "We have an appointment uptown in just about an hour; that should take us most of the day. Tomorrow...."  
  
"Tomorrow you have a 2:00 appointment in Brooklyn," Janine interrupted, checking her schedule book. "Class-4 on the waterfront."  
  
Egon nodded. "This evening, then. I'll drive out to Mawtawk Cemetery and take a look around. I recall exactly where we were when we split up; he was fine up to that point."  
  
"Why don't I go with you, Egon?" Janine piped up hopefully. "After all, it is a long drive, and you may need an ... assistant to help with the equipment."  
  
"I can...." Winston began. He trailed off when Janine turned a smoldering glare on him which should have fried him on the spot. "...load the car for you," he finished lamely.  
  
Janine beamed. "How 'bout it, Egon?"  
  
The physicist regarded her with an amused and thoughtful look for a moment, then nodded. "I can use an ... 'assistant,'" he agreed. "Thank you for offering."  
  
"Good." Peter uncrossed his ankles and rose. "You two check out the cemetery and Winston and I'll keep an eye on our boy here." He sighed and headed for the upper levels. "I hope one of us finds something out soon or I'm going to end up strangling him before the week is out."  
  
***  
  
As soon as the door to the basement lab closed behind him, Stantz sagged against it, his legs shaking. "I can't even warn them," he moaned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the heavy wood. "And I can't stop Peck by myself. What am I going to do?"  
  
To this there was no immediate answer, and after awhile Ray straightened away from his support and began to wander the room aimlessly. "He's coming back," he muttered, rubbing his scarred wrist. "He's coming back and I can't tell anyone."  
  
He stepped around the battered leather couch which snuggled against the near wall, then paused to stare sightlessly at the parts- and supplies- laden shelf standing at catercorners to the couch. Finally, he moved on, crossing the room to stop before a huge workbench which occupied fully half the opposing wallspace, and which was liberally stacked with equipment and appliances of all types and descriptions. It had become the habit of the team to deposit any mechanical device which no longer functioned as it should on this workbench. When not involved with a specific project of his own or assisting Egon, the young engineer would schedule what Peter often referred to as "tinker time," for repairs, maintenance and modifications -- modifications, because oftentimes the appliance was returned working far differently than it's original design had intended.  
  
Ray rested his fingers on an innocent looking device resting in the center of the table, then pulled it closer and seated himself on a high stool. The unit had served the team as a clock-radio for several years, until Venkman had accidentally blasted it with a particle stream. Ray had discovered the pieces late one afternoon and begun to idly put them back together. By midmorning he was testing the prototype for the world's first spectral translation unit. The device had worked well until one day many weeks later when it had shorted, knocking out power for a radius of three blocks in all directions. It had been banished to the repair table and here it had languished ever since.  
  
Ray sighed and turned it over. His eyes still had that look of far away desperation that they'd held for days, but his fingers nimbly reached for the neat rack of tools built into the wall itself. He selected a screwdriver and pried open the back of the unit, grimacing at the sight of several copper wires which gleamed in the fluorescent lights.  
  
"No mystery where the short came from," he muttered, carefully separating the wires before hooking the power cable to an auxiliary circuit breaker. "It must be throwing out more heat than I estimated. Wonder what else blew when it shorted out."  
  
He turned the device on and a low hum filled the air, the song of naked, unbridled current. Stantz nodded abstractedly. "Good thing no one was electrocu...." He trailed off, a crafty gleam touching his bright eyes. "The translator is safe enough now," he announced to the empty room. "Safe...."  
  
On that word and with no warning whatsoever, Ray Stantz snagged the wires between two fingers and stepped up the current to full. His body arced convulsively as the electricity traced its way through his system to the stone floor beneath his feet, and then he was being catapulted heels over head a full dozen feet, where he landed in a heap and lay still. He remained thus for several minutes before groaning and opening his eyes. "What...?"  
  
"Even your death would not negate the pact," a voice taunted from the shadows. "Helpless young fool."  
  
Ray dragged himself into a sitting position and leaned his back against the old sofa. "No...." he whimpered, curling into a ball. "Oh, no. No."  
  
"Oh, yes," the voice chortled.  
  
Ray Stantz rested his head on his knees and wept.  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

"I can not believe they hired us back," Peter repeated for the seventh time that afternoon. "That wimpy little manager.... What was his name?"  
  
"Shupp," Egon supplied.  
  
Peter grimaced. "Shupp hates our guts with a passion."  
  
"He obviously hates being haunted more," Winston replied, pulling Ecto up in front of a rich red awning. He shut off the engine, then craned his neck to stare up at the impressive marble and granite structure which dominated the whole west side of the block. "The Sedgewick Hotel. So this is where it all started."  
  
"Where it almost ended," Peter chuckled. He nudged Slimer, hovering in the rear, with one finger then wiped his hand clean on his coverall. "Hey, Spud, this place bring back any memories?"  
  
Slimer floated upward until he could stick his head through the roof of the car. He studied the building for a long moment, then let out a squeal. "Wow! Slimer knows this place! Lots of food!" He retracted his head and fixed Peter with a pleading look. "Eat now?"  
  
"No," Egon said firmly from Slimer's other side. "We are here to do a job, not to stage a repeat of our first case." He transferred his stern look from a dejected Slimer to Ray, in the passenger seat. "I told you it would be a mistake to bring him along."  
  
Peter spoke up before Ray had a chance, mimicking Egon's stern look as best he could with a twinkle in his eye. "You're a hard man, Egon, trying to deny our little pal here a chance to visit with an old friend." Egon snorted and Peter turned to Slimer. "He doesn't mean to be cruel," he explained instructively. "He just doesn't understand what you and Shupp had together."  
  
"Hmph!" Slimer retorted succinctly, disappearing through the floor.  
  
Jonathan Milton Shupp greeted the team at the door far more cordially than they had expected, that is to say, he didn't immediately call the police and have them arrested. The manager of the Sedgewick Hotel was little changed from their first meeting over four years earlier; pudgier, his hair a little thinner, but his attitude was exactly as they remembered it -- disdain oozing from every pore.  
  
"I think you should know," he began without preamble, "that the owners overruled my recommendation and ordered me to hire you again. As the problem is confined to the 11th and 12th floors, I suggested that we simply close that area down; they, however, insisted."  
  
He hustled them inside, explaining in a hushed voice as they walked. "Two maids reported seeing what they originally took to be a cloud of smoke filling one corner. The assumed there was a fire until it drifted down the hall and disappeared through the wall. One of them has been here for several years and recognized one of... those immediately."  
  
"Could be a Class-3 vaporous apparition," Egon mused aloud. "Or even an unaligned source specific Class-5. Interesting that it's inhabiting the same territory that Slimer did when he first arrived, don't you think, Ray?"  
  
At his comrade's lack of response, Spengler turned, but Ray was several yards back, trailing the queue silently. His tired brown eyes moved from side to side, paying particular attention to the curious faces of the hotel's patrons. Having apparently satisfied himself as to them, he next studied the lobby itself -- walls, ceiling and floor, even stretching up onto his toes to peek behind an enormous potted fern in one corner. Shupp, noticing this, stopped to glare.  
  
"I said the problem is confined to the 11th and 12th floors," he snapped irritably. "Why are you searching the lobby?"  
  
Ray blushed and absently rubbed at his wrist. "I... I'm sorry. I was just...."  
  
Peter retraced his steps, casting Shupp a bright smile en route. "Just part of our thorough and friendly service," he said. He reached the discomfited Stantz and grasped his elbow, then hustled him to the elevator. "What's the matter with you?" he muttered sotto voce. "You trying to ruin what little rep we got?"  
  
Ray hunched his shoulders slightly. "I'm sorry, Peter."  
  
"No matter," the psychologist told him, giving the younger man a pat. He turned to the staring crowd, offering them his best megawatt smile. "False alarm, folks. It was only a cockroach."  
  
"A cockroach?!" one blue-haired matron gasped, clutching an overnight case to her ample breast. "Well, I never!"  
  
"And I wouldn't hold my breath, either," Peter growled, punching the elevator call button with a vengeance.  
  
The five men squeezed into the car, the space limited due to the bulky proton packs the Ghostbusters wore. Shupp backed himself into the near corner, peering from man to man, all four of whom were staring back with undisguised amusement. "I sincerely hope I don't lose any more guests because of all this. The hotel rating dropped an entire star after the last incident."  
  
Ray tightened his web belt another notch, then clasped his right hand in his left. "Don't worry, Mr. Shupp," he said soothingly. "We'll be in and out before anyone even realizes we're here."  
  
"The last time you said that you destroyed my best ballroom," Shupp shot back.  
  
Egon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "One little mistake...."  
  
Shupp glared. "That 'little mistake' nearly cost me my job!"  
  
Venkman's expression was angelic innocence itself. "We've come a long way since then," he purred, training the barrel of his thrower on Shupp's sweating head. "Would you like a little demonstration before we start?" He lowered his thrower with a little chuckle. "That reminds me of the first time we were here," he told Winston. "You should have seen us. We hadn't even tested the equipment yet; had no idea whether or not it was going to blow us and the entire block to kingdom come."  
  
Ray tilted his head. "I was sure," he said, mildly hurt. "Didn't you believe me?"  
  
Peter draped one arm around his shoulders, giving him the same suspiciously bright smile he'd given the crowd downstairs. "Of course I believed you," he said easily. "It was Egon who was scared."  
  
"I wasn't scared," Egon retorted, uncrossing his arms. "I was... justifiably apprehensive."  
  
Shupp ignored them both. "For the third time," he announced pompously, "the problem is confined to the 11th and 12th floors. I expect you to avoid all other areas of the building at all times."  
  
Ray's ears picked up at that. "The 11th and 12th floors?" he repeated. "That's where we trapped Slimer."  
  
Winston rolled his eyes. "We already covered that part, Ray," he said tolerantly. "You want to try and keep up?"  
  
The elevator doors opened and Egon stepped out, then paused to wait for Ray to disembark. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked the younger man.  
  
Ray rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "A dimensional nexus?"  
  
Spengler nodded. "It's the most likely possibility. If so, at least we probably won't have to chase them far."  
  
"Why is that?" Shupp asked, despite himself.  
  
Peter, preoccupied with running a final check on his thrower's settings, replied automatically. "The realities' interface requires a specific amount of inherent energy to traverse...." He caught himself and glanced up. "Or so I've heard," he finished lamely.  
  
"Or so I've heard," Egon grumbled as an aside to Ray. Louder, "That's quite correct. Many minor entities can operate only so far from the influence of their own realm and only where the interface allows for overlap between the dimensions. Breaking through completely into our world is beyond their ability without outside help. That's why there's usually a surge in spirit activity during a visit by some major entity, such as Gozer or Lourdain."  
  
"Are you saying," Shupp interrupted, "that there may be more of those things around?"  
  
Egon shrugged. "Hard to say. If this is a gateway, we're going to have to close it to prevent a mass invasion. We suspected as much when Slimer first appeared."  
  
"If you'd closed it then, I wouldn't have had to go through this twice!" Shupp growled. He fixed the four with an angry look. "Why didn't you mention this four years ago?"  
  
Egon returned that look blandly. "You never asked."  
  
Shupp's glare would have burned holes in concrete. "If you had, I could have saved the hotel mon... mon...."  
  
"Money?" Peter supplied helpfully.  
  
Shupp's jaw dropped several inches and his eyes grew wide. "You brought that with you!" he accused shrilly. "I paid $5000 to have that thing removed!" He drew himself up to his full height and pointed dramatically at the floating green blob which was in the process of oozing through the floor. "I refuse, I utterly refuse to pay again! I'll sue. I'll...."  
  
"Don't worry, Mr. Shupp." Ray, always the peacemaker, raised both hands placatingly. "He'll be going home with us when we leave."  
  
"He had better." Shupp watched nervously as Slimer buzzed the ceiling once, then floated over to study him.  
  
"Slimer remembers him," the little mascot remarked in his pleasant falsetto. "First one I saw!"  
  
"The first what?" Winston asked, unclipping his thrower and powering up.  
  
"Human!" Overcome with a surge of amiability, the ghost threw his arms around Shupp's neck and kissed him full on the lips.  
  
"AAAGH!" the manager screeched, spitting ectoplasm. "Ugh!"  
  
"I don't think he likes you, Slimer," Peter commented from a safe distance.  
  
"Yuck!" Shupp reiterated, repulsed by the thick coating of slime which glued his clothes to his body and dripped in great wads off his hair.  
  
Unperturbed by Shupp's greeting, the green ghost stuck out his tongue and gave vent to a truly respectable Bronx cheer, spattering both the manager and the wall behind him with a new coating of slime.  
  
"Don't you worry, Slimer, we still love you," Winston soothed, patting his little friend on the back. "No matter what he says."  
  
Shupp raised his arms to waist level, gaping stupidly at his soggy clothes. "This was an Armani," he mourned, flicking dripping ectoplasm off his fingertips. He audibly ground his teeth, while his face mottled red. "You'll pay for this!" he roared.  
  
Slimer sought refuge behind Ray, who smiled, while Egon placidly pulled out his PKE meter and thumbed it on. He had to clear his throat loudly when a blob of goo detached itself from Shupp's forehead and began a ludicrous downhill ski jump off the end of the man's nose. "PKE is steady on this floor," he said, dismissing the manager. "I'm reading a Class-3..."  
  
"Is that all?" Ray asked. "Darn."  
  
"...but I can't seem to pick up any more information from here. I suggest we split up and search each floor separately for signs of a breach. Ray, do you have the extra PKE meter with you?"  
  
Stantz patted his pockets, finally locating the little instrument snapped to his pack. "Got it."  
  
"Good." Egon jerked his head towards the left hand branch of the hallway. "You check this floor for increased PKE and signs of inhabitation. I'll drop down to eleven and begin there. If you find evidence of a breach, use the radio. A gateway in existence for nearly five years is bound to have weakened around the barrier rim."  
  
"What does that mean?" Winston asked suspiciously.  
  
Ray made a little throw-away gesture. "Boom."  
  
Winston grimaced. "Sorry I asked."  
  
Egon nodded solemnly. "It's a possibility. If we're not careful, we'll end up knee-deep in spirits."  
  
"Just what we need," Peter commented sourly. "A spud-flood. No offense, Slimer," he added.  
  
"Oh, that's okay," Slimer returned agreeably.  
  
"That's all assuming," Ray reminded them, studying the glowing face of his meter, "that this is really a dimensional nexus we're dealing with." He massaged the bridge of his nose with his free hand, then checked the meter again. "Pretty low level Class-3."  
  
"I noticed that, too." Spengler inclined his head. "Perhaps we are dealing with that rarest of improbabilities -- the true coincidence."  
  
"I don't believe in coincidences," Peter growled, shouldering his thrower. "But we'll never find out by standing here gabbing. Let's do it!"  
  
"Right!" Winston agreed.  
  
He, with Egon at his shoulder, reentered the waiting elevator, having to circumnavigate the still sputtering Jonathan Shupp to reach it. Egon paused long enough to say, "I understand that the wet look is out this year," before the doors closed and they were whisked from view.  
  
Shupp, still gaping after them, stared at the metal doors for a full thirty seconds, then closed his mouth with a snap and stormed for the fire exit, muttering low epithets as he went.  
  
Peter and Ray exchanged a grin, then Peter lowered his thrower and switched it on. A low hum filled the immediate area, a reassuring sound in the silent hall. "You have a direction on that thing, yet?" he asked.  
  
Stantz glanced at the meter, then shook his head. "Nothing definite. It's hard to get a reading on something this low powered -- we may not even have a Class-3 here."  
  
"At least we're not facing teeth and claws," Peter sighed, starting off down the hall. "You sense anything, Spud?"  
  
"T-teeth and claws?" Slimer repeated, his yellow-orange eyes as big as saucers.  
  
"Not this time out," Ray assured the ghost, freeing his own thrower and balancing it across his forearm. "Peter just wants to know if you can sense anything around."  
  
"Oh." Slimer's frightened expression faded into one of concentration. "Yeah! Yeah! Follow me!" He zipped rapidly down the hall, Peter and Ray at his back, then disappeared through an innocuous looking door halfway down a side corridor. He was back in an instant, nodding his 'head' and shaking all over. "Here! Here! Hurry!"  
  
"Show time!" Ray called, losing his gloomy mien at the prospect of action. "Out of the way, Slimer!" Slimer obediently disappeared through the floor as Ray leveled his thrower at the door and thumbed it on. He fired just seconds ahead of Peter, whose face wore a look of gleeful anticipation. Twin beams shot out, each striking the closed door exactly dead center. The paneling disintegrated under the destructive might of two nuclear accelerators, leaving a gaping hole into the darkened room. To the rear, Slimer cheered loudly, having reappeared as soon as they'd opened fire.  
  
Ray waited not an instant before leaping through the aperture, flicking on the overhead lamp with his left hand and leveling his thrower with his right. He paused a moment, then back-pedelled hurriedly, his face crimson. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, slamming full into Peter, who was trying to enter the room behind him.  
  
Venkman uttered a low "OOF!" when Ray hit, then swung his colleague impatiently out of the way, allowing himself free access to the room. His "Ooops! Sorry, folks! Please carry on," was off-hand, but the look he gave Ray upon returning to the hall was chagrined. "Honeymoon Suite," he remarked unnecessarily. "Slimer," he went on silkily.  
  
The friendly spectre floated through the doorway again, having gone through after Ray. "Yes, boss?"  
  
"Maybe you misunderstood me," Peter went on, his voice crushed velvet. "I said I wanted you to sniff out 'spuds,' not 'studs.' You do know the difference, don't you?"  
  
Slimer puffed himself out importantly and danced a little jig in the air. "Uh-huh! Wanted you to see! Mushy stuff fun! Watch all the time!"  
  
Ray, his color still high, regarded the ghost wide-eyed. "You don't go peeking in people's bedrooms?" he asked, honestly scandalized. "But that's.... They were... I mean...."  
  
"Would you like me to explain it to you?" Pete offered kindly.  
  
It took Ray several seconds to realize that the psychologist was taking to him rather than Slimer. "Peter!"  
  
"Okay, okay, I was just asking." Peter grinned cheekily, his own aplomb rapidly returning. "We're not looking for mushy stuff, Spud, only the out- of-place gooper we're getting paid for. Got it?"  
  
"Got it," Slimer agreed, disappointed. He floated off, sniffing the air like a hunting dog and mumbling to himself. Without warning, he disappeared through the floor and was gone.  
  
"You don't think he really watches people... when they...?" Ray asked in a hushed voice, deliberately ignoring the sounds of two people cursing and scurrying for their clothes from within the room.  
  
Peter shrugged but his eyes danced with mischief. "It's not like you have anything to worry about," he teased, slapping his friend on the back.  
  
Ray's blush deepened and he turned away, trotting a safe distance down the hall. Peter chuckled. "Guess Slimer's not as dumb as he looks," he told himself running to catch up.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

"You really think we're dealing with a gateway?" Winston asked, rapping sharply on the door to a private suite.  
  
Egon listened then tried the knob. It turned easily and he hesitated only long enough to find the light switch before going in. "The odds are rather low," he admitted, glancing around at the tasteful decorations. "We're registering only one Class-3 with low ambient PKE. It's far more likely that we're dealing with an isolated incident rather than f full gateway effect. This room is clear."  
  
Zeddemore heaved a sigh of relief. "Glad to hear it -- about the gateway, I mean, 'cause if a Class-3 can come through, maybe something nastier could, too." He backed nervously out of the room. "Uh... it can't, can it?"  
  
"Winston?"  
  
"YEOW!" Zeddemore started violently, spinning and aiming more on instinct than intent. It was only reflexes sharpened by long practice that prevented his finger from tightening on the trigger at the sight of "Slimer! Don't do that!"  
  
Chastened, the little ghost desolidified, dripping several pints of ectoplasm and two hamburgers on the carpet. "Sorry, Winston."  
  
"'S'okay, Spud," the black man hastened to assure him. "You just startled me. I thought you were upstairs with Peter and Ray."  
  
"Came down here. They didn't like mushy stuff." Slimer solidified again, rearranging his form into the rough configuration of two people in an intimate embrace, then reassumed his own shape with a snap. "Slimer likes mushy stuff! Watch with Peter sometimes! Better here."  
  
Winston crossed his arms stubbornly. "I am not going to ask," he stated in tones which allowed no room for argument. "And what's more, I do not want to know."  
  
"Neither do I," Egon agreed fervently. He paused, a reluctant smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "I wonder if we'll hear about it at all from Ray?"  
  
Winston thought about it for a minute, then chuckled. "Not if we stuck him over burning coals. Know for a fact we won't be able to shut Peter up!"  
  
On this note the two -- with Slimer now in close attendance -- continued their search, Egon consulting his meter frequently and ordering course corrections as they walked. Their route was circuitous and terminated at last before heavy mahogany doors bearing a small brass plate which identified this as The Braithwaite Suite.  
  
Egon studied his meter a last time, then nodded. "Whatever it is, it's in there," he acknowledged, stowing the instrument and drawing his particle rifle. "Ready?" At Winston's nod he cracked one of the doors and slipped inside, Zeddemore at his heels, Slimer bringing up the rear. The room was pitch black and utterly still, and then...  
  
"SURPRISE!" chorused exactly 142 voices, and the room was suddenly ablaze with light. For the second time that day Winston yelped and aimed his thrower; this time, however, his reflexes weren't quite fast enough to prevent his firing. Brilliant energy snaked out of his barrel, licking at a large, dessert laden table and just missing the paunchy, middle-aged man who was bent over to tying his shoe laces. The man froze in his half-erect position, staring up at the charred hole which represented the exact spot his head had occupied only a second before. He uttered a little moan, slipped the rest of the way to the floor and shut his eyes.  
  
"Fred!" a paunchy, middle-aged woman shrieked, throwing herself to her husband's side. "Fred, are you all right?"  
  
"Glglmph," Fred gurgled, with as much coherence as he could manage under the circumstances.  
  
The woman heaved a sigh of relief. "He's all right."  
  
Abashed, Winston lowered his rifle and took two steps backward under the combined glare of 141 pairs of eyes. "Oops. Sorry."  
  
Thinking quickly, Egon leaped dramatically into the middle of the floor, just as a briefly-seen figure in the far corner floated upwards and vanished through the ceiling. "Good work, Winston," he thundered, giving up the chase and waving his thrower around like a sword. "That ectoplasmic manifestation could have discorporated that citizen!"  
  
Fred raised his head to stare blankly at the dramatically-poised physicist. "Hunh?"  
  
Egon recouped hastily. "The ghost almost ate his face!" he translated.  
  
The statement had its desired effect -- anger transmuted into fear in the twinkling of an eye. "G-g-ghost?" Fred stuttered, sitting up. "Eat?"  
  
"Fooooood," a shrill voice uttered in a tone one usually reserved for invoking one's deity. Slimer floated from behind Winston's concealing bulk and regarded the banquet tables with wide-eyed awe. "Eat!"  
  
"No, Sli--" Winston began. Too late -- shifting into the form of a five- foot high mouth complete with teeth, tongue and tonsils, Slimer descended on the laden tables like a green bolt of lightning, sweeping everything -- roasts, cakes and beverages alike -- into his great gullet. His excitement allowed much of his hoard to slip through to spatter the tablecloth and carpet with a combination of food and goo. Thirty seconds later he gave off a contented belch and settled into the punch bowl to pick his teeth.  
  
"Eat?" Fred repeated dully. "GHOST!" Having spent the last of his courage sitting up, the appearance of this unearthly vision broke him completely. He uttered a squawk and sped for the door; the rest of the crowd lasted little longer before following suit and stampeding after him. Within seconds the room was clear.  
  
"Shupp isn't gonna like this," Winston sighed, staring around.  
  
"Urp," Slimer replied, promptly falling asleep.  
  
***  
  
Back on twelve, Peter and Ray had finished one circuit of the floor and were even now discussing their next move.  
  
"We could always go back and see how that honeymoon couple are getting on," Peter suggested, firmly sticking his tongue into his cheek. "Guy looked like he could use a few pointers." One hand threaded through auburn hair, Ray blushed again. "That was so embarrassing. I thought Shupp would have had these floors cleared so we could work without...." "Surprising anyone?" Peter finished, chuckling.  
  
Ray grinned ruefully. "Surprising we," he admitted, leaning tiredly against the wall. "I didn't know Slimer was so ... educated."  
  
"Good thing he doesn't have a body," Peter added, throwing back his shoulders, "or you'd be in trouble." He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think you might be his type." That won him a laugh that quickly faded. "We didn't find anything at all on this floor," the engineer said, reclipping his thrower and flexing his right hand. "What do you want to do next? Start again?"  
  
"We could--" The reply was interrupted by the insistent chirping of the communicator hooked to Venkman's belt. He raised it and thumbed it on. "Spook Squad."  
  
"Spengler here," came the clipped reply. "We sighted the target in the Braithwaite Suite..." Peter cocked an inquiring brow at Ray, who shrugged, "...but it escaped while we were ...uh ...clearing the room of bystanders."  
  
"What does it look like?" Ray asked, leaning over Peter's shoulder.  
  
"We only got a quick look at the spectre," the blond physicist rumbled in return, "but from what I could make out in a brief glimpse, it's mimicking human form -or part of one. For what reason, I cannot fathom."  
  
Zeddemore's voice came next, more muffled by the transceiver than was Egon's bass. "I saw it too-it was grey, in the vague shape of an old man. The bottom half was indistinct but judging from the collar, it looked to be dressed like a priest. The creature disappeared through the ceiling when it saw us."  
  
"Through the ceiling puts it on our level," Peter began, "and-" He broke off when Ray's fingers dug into his shoulder.  
  
"Peter," he whispered. "Look!"  
  
The psychologist raised his head in time to see a wispy figure materialize through the floor not six feet in front of him. In the uneven light the torso might have been confused for an old man's; though bloated and incomplete, the face was lined- seamed with what might have been years of life and sorrow. Tears trickled down the semi-transparent cheeks to vanish into the whispy material of a priest's reverse collar. That it was the same being Winston and Egon had seen a few minutes earlier was inarguable.  
  
"Mary." The creature's eerie voice rose with distress and he peered about in all directions before passing by the two astonished Ghostbusters as though they weren't there at all. "Mary, please don't!" the pseudoman begged. "Mary, wait!"  
  
"I don't think he can see us," Peter remarked wonderingly turning to follow the creature down the corridor.  
  
"A Class Three localized entity," Stantz rattled off as though by rote. "Not a very dangerous one, either." His expression softened with the nether- being's next wail, a soul-shattering cry that rang eerily from the walls. "It's so sad. Maybe...maybe we don't have to...."  
  
Peter stuck the transceiver behind his back, dark brows knitting. "Five thousand dollars," he rapped succinctly. "That's what they're paying us to get rid of this guy...er...thing...." He paused, regarding his younger colleague measuringly. "For five thousand dollars I'd even trap you."  
  
Ray ignored that last. "But he's so sad," he persisted, shaking Peter's shoulder. "Isn't there something...?  
  
Venkman glared "Remember Victor?" The engineer subsided, his eves taking on that pleading look that never failed to drop Peter in his tracks. "Oh, for...." He lifted the radio back to his lips, still frowning prodigiously. "Stand by, Egon. We need to study the situation awhile."  
  
"Study what?" Egon demanded, but Peter was already snapping off the unit and reclipping it to his belt.  
  
"We'll see," he said ambiguously, managing to not meet the younger man's look.  
  
Ray brightened hopefully and released Peter's shoulder after giving it a grateful pat. He approached the ghost, who was scrutinizing the room numbers avidly as though searching for something. "Excuse me?" he called softly. "Uh...sir?"  
  
"Don't do it, Mary." The entity stepped up to Ray and then through him, muttering, "He changed his mind."  
  
Stantz fell back with a gasp, and Peter leaped forward, grabbing his friend's arm tightly and yanking him out of the way of the ersatz old man, who was crossing the hall to the next room down. "Ray? Are you all right?"  
  
Stantz found his balance and pulled out of Peter's grip, offering the other Ghostbuster a reassuring nod. "It was weird, Peter," he said, following the ghost with his eyes. "He went right through me!"  
  
Green eyes widened curiously. "What did it feel like?"  
  
Ray shivered. "Cold and...." He paused and bit his lip. "Real sad. At least, that's the feeling I got."  
  
"Mary!" the entity wailed, stopping in front of an innocuous looking door near the end of the hall. "Mary, please!"  
  
The calls were getting louder, causing Peter to rub his chin pensively. Ignoring Ray's inquiring look, he made his way to a little stand in the corner and picked up the house phone. "Front desk?" he asked after a moment. "Dr. Venkman here." He smiled. "Yes, that Dr. Venkman. Got a question for you- do you know of any suicides that might have taken place here on the twelfth floor?" He listened for several minutes, said, "Thank you," and hung up. He turned to find Ray hovering curiously at his elbow. "I was right-a woman did suicide here about thirty-five years ago after being jilted by her lover. The staff all know about it." He paused dramatically, raising both hands to waist height. "Her name was Mary Beeton."  
  
Ray's eyes widened. "Mary! Maybe it's the same one?"  
  
"'Mary, don't do it,'" Peter quoted, then shrugged. "I'd give good odds, wouldn't you? Of course, this is obviously not Mary's spook unless Mary had a really bad hormone problem."  
  
Ray shifted his gaze to where the ghost was standing forlornly before the door to room twelve-fourteen and still crying silently. "N-E's have been known to fixate on humans in the past; some of them have followed whole families around for generations. It's almost as though they form a bond of some sort, even if nobody knows why." He lifted one tan-clad shoulder in a little shrug. "We never figured out why Slimer fixated on us; it's probably the same principle."  
  
"Might be interesting to study the subject with another specimen," the psychologist murmured, still rubbing his chin. "Slimer was never very clear about answering that."  
  
Ray gave him a knowing glance then back to the whispy gray creature that had now materialized hands and was wringing them forlornly. "Do you think this one fixated on either Mary or the man who jilted her?"  
  
"Don't you?" Peter followed Stantz' gaze, his own expression easing. "The jilter's name was Lawrence, according to the desk clerk, but the woman couldn't remember whether that was his first name or last. My guess is that the gooper either knew this Lawrence guy and followed him around; that might be Larry's appearance it assumed."  
  
"Lawrence." Ray tried the name out softly. There was no response from the entity, and Ray tried again, louder. "Lawrence?" Still nothing. Ray sighed and shot Peter a regretful look. "You were right, he... it can't hear or see us. I guess it's not accessing our sphere fully enough to make contact. I...I hate to trap it. If we could somehow force it back to its own realm...."  
  
Peter raised a hand, cutting him off, then chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully for several minutes. "It can't hear us," he echoed, "but maybe...." His expression cleared and he reached again for the transceiver. "Egon, are you there?"  
  
"It's about time," the physicist snapped, answering immediately. "What's going on up there?" "We found the N-E. It doesn't look like it can see or hear us at all."  
  
"That should provide us ease of entrapment. Have you done so already?"  
  
Venkman exchanged a wry look with Stantz, whose amber eyes sparkled as brightly as did Peter's green. "Not exactly," the psychologist stated carefully. "I'd like to try something. Is Slimer there with you?"  
  
"Slimer?" Even across the radio they could hear Winston's snort. "Yeah, we got him right here, for what he's worth. What do you need him for?"  
  
"Just get him up here quick," the psychologist ordered. "I'll explain when you get here." He made to turn off the transceiver, hesitated and returned it to his lips. "Oh, yeah. A word of advice."  
  
"What is it?" Egon rumbled impatiently.  
  
Invisible to his absent teammates, Peter grinned into the mike though his voice was positively neutral. "Better steer him around the honeymoon suite." Ray colored again and Peter snapped off the unit. "I've got a plan," he said, tapping the younger man on the shoulder. "There's a possibility that we can talk this puppy to bed rather than blasting him."  
  
Auburn hair shook back when Ray tilled his head to regard the other man interestedly. "You think he'll be able to hear Slimer?"  
  
Peter leaned casually against the little table and folded his arms across his chest, his dark brown uniform rustling slightly with the motion. "It's a possibility. We'll have to make sure Slimer stays out of sight, though; if this pretend Lawrence can hear him, it might be able to see him as well."  
  
Ray nodded eagerly. "I'll head them off at the elevator!" he announced bounding off down the hall. "Slimer can hide in my shirt."  
  
"Yuck," his friend muttered under his breath.  
  
Ray was back in minutes, Egon and Winston in tow. The front of his uniform was red-stained and sticky-looking, but he managed a tired smile at Peter's disgusted look. Venkman stared from the tan uniform to the punchbowl Winston still carried in both hands, cocking one brown brow.  
  
"Slimer was... occupied," the black Ghostbuster said by way of explanation, setting the glass bowl carefully on the floor. "I had to carry him up."  
  
Peter rolled his eyes and stepped aside to allow his friends an unlimited view of the spectral 'Lawrence,' who was rattling the door knob with shaky hands. Egon stared, openly advancing until he could examine the visitor face to face. "You're certain he's unable to perceive us in any way?" the physicist asked, passing his hand through the entity's neck and quickly withdrawing with a shudder. "Hmmmm. Fascinating."  
  
Peter Venkman watched the maneuver closely if without undue worry. "Yep. Got a plan, though."  
  
"Does it involve blasting this guy back to where he came from?" Winston growled, unclipping his particle thrower.  
  
"You can't!" Ray's protest was immediate. He stepped between the black man and the extraterrestrial, positioning himself so that his partner couldn't get a clear shot. "Please wait, Winston."  
  
"You feeling suicidal or something, kid?" the black Ghostbuster demanded, finger frozen on his trigger. "Wait for what?"  
  
The younger man raised both hands placatingly. "Peter has a plan," he announced with pride. "You'll see."  
  
"That's what I'm afraid of," Zeddemore mumbled, nevertheless obeying the plea and reluctantly lowering his weapon. "Okay, Pete, what've you got?"  
  
Venkman grinned, but when he spoke it was to address the front of Ray's shirt. "Hey, Spud, you in there?" He tapped the engineer gently on the chest then grimaced and scrubbed his hand on his pants leg. "Yuck."  
  
Slimer's reedy falsetto emanated from the general direction of Ray's waist, muffled and lethargic sounding. "Slimer's here. "  
  
"Good spud." Peter glanced over his shoulder at the visiting entity, who had stopped rattling the door and now stood frozen in an attitude of listening. "Hey, Lawrence! ...I wonder if the gooper has a name of his own? Oh, well."  
  
"Mary?" the wispy gray creature wailed forlornly, patently unaware of the summons.  
  
That was enough. Peter nodded, satisfied. "Hey, Slimer, want you to do me a favor."  
  
"Yes, Peterrr" the Class Five asked, sticking his head through Ray's front zipper. Stantz hurriedly shoved him back out of sight. "Stay inside my jumpsuit, Slimer," he admonished in a harsh whisper. "Remember what I told I told you."  
  
"Okay,, " came the mildly muffled response.  
  
Peter maneuvered the Ray-and-Slimer combination nearer to the 'Lawrence' entity with a hand on Ray's elbow. "All I want you to do," he said, addressing the unseen Slimer, "is to repeat what I say word for word, and don't come out of Ray's shirt. Got it?"  
  
"Got it!"  
  
The Lawrence clone turned toward the human quartet, his eyes passing over them with no change of his sorrowful expression. "Is someone there? Mary, is that you?"  
  
"Say yes, Slimer," Peter ordered.  
  
"Yes, Slimer," their little friend piped up obediently. Peter groaned.  
  
"Yes. ..who?" 'Lawrence' asked, taking a single step forward. "Mary?"  
  
"Yes," Peter said. "It's Mary."  
  
Slimer dutifully repeated the sentence and the counterfeit Lawrence seemed to relax, a look of intense relief on its seemingly weathered face. "Mary, hooray! You're all right?"  
  
"Yes," came the dual response.  
  
'Lawrence' looked around, puzzled. "Where are you, Mary? I've been looking for you.... I had to wait, you know ... man Lawrence sick. Couldn't leave him. Couldn't go home. 'M hungry, Mary."  
  
"I know. Long time. "  
  
"Many, many, many years." Tears fell more heavily down the pseudo-cheeks and the thin voice shook with sobs. "He was sorry, Mary. Tried to make it up ... He was church priest. Said repent. I miss Lawrence."  
  
"Mary knows," Slimer echoed again. He paused and then played Peter's trump card. "Mary forgives Lawrence. Mary loves Lawrence."  
  
Though the tears continued to fall, hope and joy brightened the blank eyes of the tortured creature. "Lawrence said waited thirty-five years for that," it said quietly. "Thirty-five years.... Little time for me. Much time for Lawrence. He see you...?"  
  
"Come to me, " Slimer said shrilly. "Other side. Look for me there."  
  
The gray entity sighed deeply and bowed its head. "Go home now," it intoned, beginning to waver. It raised its face heavenward as it must have seen the genuine, living Lawrence do often, and stretched wide its hands. "Home!" he repeated, and then began to grow, its very essence spreading and thinning until, within seconds, the space before the hotel door was empty.  
  
"He's gone!" Winston gasped, passing his hand back and forth where the nether-entity had been. "But will he be back later?"  
  
Egon studied his meter, muttering to himself. "The N-E has re-traversed the dimensional breach. Nothing but residual PKE. Looks like it's gone for good." He waved the meter in all directions, then slipped it into his pocket. "Still showing signs of an open portal; we'll close it before we leave. Good call, Dr. Venkman."  
  
"Yeah, good, " Slimer shrilled, oozing out of Ray's already sopping shirt front. "Go eat now."  
  
"That was really great, Peter," Ray agreed, smiling warmly at his brown- haired friend. "How did you know that gooper only wanted Mary's forgiveness for Lawrence?"  
  
Peter shrugged modestly, though he visibly basked in his associates' approval. "No big secret," he said, absently waving a hovering Slimer away with his thrower. "We knew the N-E was repeating what this Lawrence must have said. Figuring out who Lawrence was, was the tricky part; what a priest was doing begging his lover's pardon took the big stretch. Then it dawned on me how old this guy must have been when he died- if we could trust this gooper's representation of him- and that the suicide probably took place before he became a priest at all."  
  
"The real Lawrence probably only recently passed on," Egon guessed, idly tapping the punch bowl with the toe of his boot. "The nether-entity must have been an invisible companion over the years- or, at least, whenever it accessed our planet. It looked like a Type Six, which requires frequent returns to its own plane to survive."  
  
"How sad that Lawrence had to live through thirty-five years of remorse without being able to apologize to the dead woman," Ray murmured quietly. "His invisible buddy reflected a lot of sadness."  
  
"I wonder if that's why Lawrence became a priest in the first place," Winston said as an aside, "because he felt responsible for her death."  
  
"Maybe." Peter stowed his thrower and rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn in his palm. "It's common enough; some people spend their entire lives trying to undo something that couldn't be prevented in the first place."  
  
"Undo...." Every muscle froze for several seconds, and Ray's smile faded; blinking twice, he fixed Peter steadily with a look that was a mixture of divine revelation and startled hope. "Undo...?"  
  
Startled by his friend's expression, Peter stared back, green eyes wide. "What?"  
  
Divine revelation regraded to open admiration. "Peter, has anyone ever told you that you're a genius!"  
  
Still puzzled but oddly moved by Ray's praise, Peter smiled back. "Not today," he admitted, draping a friendly arm around the younger man's shoulders, "but just the other day Egon was saying...."  
  
"You don't want to repeat that part in public," Egon retorted good- naturedly, falling into step with his teammates. "You might shock someone with the language."  
  
"I'll tell you what Egon was saying," Peter went on, steering Ray down the corridor, "as soon as Egon isn't around to contradict it."  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

The absence of traffic made for a shorter, more enjoyable trip out to the far end of Long Island this second time around. Egon and Janine filled the hours with pleasant conversation, having long since found that, although their tastes were widely antithetical, they could each find a measure of pleasure in the other's interests.  
  
"...and you really think that will prove an intelligent use of the psychokinetic energy?" Janine asked, shifting comfortably in Ecto's passenger seat.  
  
Spengler nodded. "If the experiment is successful, that's precisely what I expect to prove," he assured her happily, "but only in specific specimens of housemold. My theory is that the PKE potential is enhanced by human proximity, not unlike the psychoreactive slime we discovered when battling Vigo the Carpathian."  
  
Janine giggled. "Reminds me of that old movie on WOR last Saturday. Ever see Green Slime?  
  
"Well, actually...." Spengler cleared his throat before shooting the woman a sheepish grin. "I happened to have the television on Saturday and the movie did happen to be on the channel I was viewing...."  
  
The giggle turned into a full-throated chuckle. "Egon Spengler," she teased, shaking a finger in his direction. "Do you mean to tell me that you spent last Saturday afternoon watching an old horror movie instead of working your brains out in the lab?" Egon grinned again and Janine slapped his arm playfully. "That's something I would have expected from Ray, not you!"  
  
Egon guided the car around a semi, which was wobbling precariously across a tract of potholes, then turned off the main highway, his boyish grin fading into a pensive scowl. "Ray spent the entire day in the basement lab with the door locked. I didn't see him at all until Sunday afternoon."  
  
"Ray kept the door locked?" Janine echoed. "Come to think of it, he did disappear back downstairs as soon as you all got back from the Sedgewick this afternoon. I didn't even know he was involved with a new project."  
  
"He's working on something," the other returned, braking for a red light. "His workbench is scattered with parts and equipment. I asked him what it was and he wouldn't say anything except that it was an idea he wanted to try out."  
  
"You usually can't shut him up on anything he's working on." Janine crossed her legs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her already short skirt rode up several inches. She was not oblivious, however, to the appreciative spark which gleamed behind Egon's thick lenses, and it returned a faint smile to her lips. "Did you look his equipment over?"  
  
There was a pause during which Spengler almost visibly wrenched himself back to the subject of his youngest colleague. "Um ... yes, as a matter of fact, I did. He finally fell asleep this morning and...." He shrugged, embarrassed by the admission. "I wasn't prying," he defended himself firmly. "I was simply...."  
  
"Worried?" Janine suggested delicately.  
  
"Yes." The embarrassment faded back to concern. "Yes, I am worried."  
  
Janine mulled this over a few minutes, her brown wrinkled. "What was it he was working on?" she asked at last.  
  
Spengler shrugged again. "It looked like components from our security system. I noticed modifications made to the laser scan grid and an extra power loop wired into the containment unit."  
  
Janine stared at him blankly. "What does that mean?"  
  
"I have no idea." Spengler freed his right hand to readjust his red-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. "The computer commands were locked in under Ray's personal code; I couldn't even access the information system, much less activate the modified units."  
  
"Gee, that is weird." Janine uncrossed her legs and surreptitiously slid closer to the blond. He made no objection, and she used the opportunity to settle comfortably against his side. "And you don't have any idea what he's doing at all?"  
  
"No. Although...."  
  
"Ah-Ha!" Janine stated with satisfaction. "I knew there was more! 'Although,' what?"  
  
A motorcycle changed lanes in front of the big hearse, and Egon waited until it had cleared the left fender before answering. "I did notice a mistake," he admitted reluctantly. "Whatever it is he's trying to do, he's created the capacity to channel thousands of kilowatts through a reasonably delicate unit. The potential exists for the system to overload, probably exploding and possibly electrocuting whoever is using it."  
  
"That's not like Ray at all!" the woman gasped. "He may be a major klutz, but his work is always top scale."  
  
"It is an obvious mistake," the blond acknowledged. "I wired a secondary buffering unit directly into the scanner as a precaution. It won't take much, but it should prevent a major disaster until I can talk to him about it."  
  
Janine patted his hand. "I see why you're worried," she said sympathetically. "That's not like Ray at all."  
  
"No, it isn't." Egon sighed deeply. "Add to that what Peter told us this morning about the dreams Ray has been suffering through...."  
  
"He also looks like crap," Janine interjected tactlessly.  
  
Spengler shook his head. "Even Peter can't get him to talk, and I must confess that that worries me most of all. Peter has always been able to get through to Ray before, even ... when none of the rest of us could."  
  
"You mean after Walter Peck." Janine practically spat the name, the hatred in her voice mirrored by the altered gleam in Spengler's blue eyes.  
  
He grimaced. "Peter didn't tell us much about what happened the night after our last group session ... you know which one I mean?" Janine nodded. "Only that he'd finally gotten Ray to talk. When they got home we could tell...."  
  
"Tell what?" the redhead asked, mildly alarmed by the other's silence.  
  
"That they'd both been crying," Spengler finished quietly.  
  
Janine tossed her head. "Best thing for them," she asserted confidently. "Does a woman a world of good." She ignored Egon's disbelieving stare to slip a small hand into his large one. "Don't worry, Ray is a strong man -- stronger than you think. Whatever's happening to him, he can handle it."  
  
"Perhaps." Spengler's angular face creased further, then relaxed fractionally when Janine squeezed his fingers.  
  
"No 'perhaps' about it, Dr. Spengler," she stated. "He's not a kid anymore, you know. Well, not much," she corrected herself after a moment's thought. "He's grown up a lot in the last four years."  
  
"Has he?" That won her a startled look. Egon pursed his lips, his left hand automatically directed the big car but his eyes were many years away. "I suppose you're right," he admitted after a while. "I never really noticed before, but.... I met Ray when he was a Junior in college -- he hadn't even turned nineteen yet. I was twenty-six and already had my first Doctorate."  
  
"You met Dr. Venkman before then, didn't you?" Janine asked, already familiar with the story.  
  
Spengler flashed her another of his rare grins. "I'd met Peter almost a year earlier. I was beginning to dabble in the paranormal from a purely physical direction, whereas Peter was working on his Master's in psychology and branching into the parapsychological fields by testing human espers. We were assigned to share a lab for awhile...."  
  
Janine cut him off with a frantic wave of her free hand. "Don't tell me," she begged. "I can imagine what that was like! I've heard some of Dr. V's college stories."  
  
"We were a bit mismatched at first," the blond admitted with a little laugh. "And when poor Raymond joined us as my lab assistant, we were in a semi-friendly, perpetual state of open warfare." He broke off to stomp on the brakes when a garishly painted van cut to the left, neatly blocking the entire lane.  
  
"Jerkoff!" Janine yelled out her open window.  
  
Egon winced but made no comment and, after a moment, the van moved on.  
  
"So how did you and Dr. V. get to be friends?" Janine asked, retracting her head. "Ray make peace between you like does now?"  
  
Spengler cocked one brow. "Peter and I are mature adults," he retorted with great dignity, "and we don't need anyone mediating our personal affairs."  
  
"Especially some nineteen year old kid?" Janine suggested.  
  
"Precise...." He trailed off again, a look of amused revelation wiping the lines from his planed face. "I'm not really that bad," he protested wryly, "but I suppose old impressions do tend to linger. Even though Ray is an adult now ... more or less."  
  
The woman laughed again and brushed a strand of bobbed red hair out of her eyes. "'More or less' sums him up pretty well," she commented lightly. "Isn't that a cemetery over there?"  
  
"Mawtawk Cemetery." The tires crunched on gravel as Spengler eased the car onto the off-road access, between the half-opened double gates leading into the cemetery proper. He drove a short distance inside then braked to a halt and shut off the engine. "We'd better leave the car here and go the rest of the way on foot," he said with some reluctance. "Walking up that hill doesn't exactly appeal to me, but we'd do best to conduct a progressive search of the premises if we expect to find anything useful."  
  
He climbed out of the car and stretched, jabbing viciously at the small of his back with one hand. "I'll certainly be glad to get home tonight," he told the redhead as she joined him by the car's front bumper. "It's been an unusually long day."  
  
Janine gave him a pat. "I'll drive on the way back," she offered. "You can catch a little sleep in the back seat if you want."  
  
Egon smiled his thanks and pulled out the PKE meter from his pocket, switching it on with one hand. "Ambient PKE," he reported, waving it in a slow circle. "Slightly higher in the direction we captured the Indian spirits, but nothing significant."  
  
Janine surveyed her surroundings interestedly. The moon, a week past full, lit the landscape brightly, the headstones reflecting it as a muted silver, the trees casting not-unattractive shadows in the background. "This place is really kind'a pretty," she said at last. "For a graveyard, that is."  
  
"Most people find cemeteries daunting," Spengler pointed out, resting his hand on her arm. "It you're nervous...?"  
  
Janine shook her head. "Lot'a bull. If you're gonna be scared of something, be scared of something that'll hurt you, like getting mugged. Place like this ain't nothin'."  
  
Egon smiled at the no-nonsense tone and gave her arm a friendly squeeze before releasing it. "Very practical of you," he approved. "You take the plasmometer and aurascope, while I handle the PKE meter and infrared equipment."  
  
They set off, working as a unit across the walled-in acres, examining each section carefully with their equipment and by the light of the moon before moving on. It was two hours later that they finished the downhill slope where Ray had disappeared. Egon rose from a half crouch in front of a large flat tombstone to sit on its edge.  
  
"Nothing," he said, breaking a silence that had lasted some minutes. "Absolutely no PK surges anywhere on the grounds."  
  
"Maybe what upset Ray wasn't supernatural," Janine suggested tiredly, seating herself at his side. "If so, it wasn't anything I recognized. I'm sorry, Egon, we tried."  
  
He glanced at her, then slipped an arm around her shoulders. Janine leaned against him, resting her head on his chest. "I'm glad you came with me," he said hesitantly. "I appreciate the help -- and the company."  
  
She raised her head, meeting his openly speculative gaze with a warm smile. "You know I don't mind," she returned softly. "I'm happy we had some ... time together."  
  
Their gazes locked for a long moment, and then Egon lowered his head and pressed his lips very gently against hers. She met the kiss passively at first, then with increasing hunger, moaning as his lips left her mouth to trail along her throat.  
  
As though planned they slipped from the edge of the stone to the soft grass, their caresses becoming more insistent as passion mounted. "Janine," Egon whispered, fumbling with his clothes. "I...."  
  
"I do believe you're both my prisoners." The couple jerked upright at that droll, silky statement to blink owlishly at the shadowed forms not six feet away. "Sorry to interrupt, but...."  
  
His statement was cut off short when a petite redheaded projectile launched herself across the intervening space and collided solidly against his chest, shrieking furiously all the while. Caught off-guard, the stranger staggered, his quick snatch at her wrists barely preventing the sharp nails from reaching his eyes. "YA COULDN'T'A WAITED?!" Janine raged, lashing out. "You jerks! Yer timing STINKS!"  
  
"Janine!" Spengler, too, gained his feet in an instant. He was prevented from coming to the woman's assistance when both of his arms were clamped from behind in a painfully tight grip. He kicked wildly with his booted foot, grunting his satisfaction when the blow smashed against someone's shin. There was no noticeable reaction, however, to what was usually a briefly incapacitating maneuver. The grip on his arms only tightened, forcing the physicist to his knees. He managed to turn his head slightly until he could see the fingers clamped into his left arm; they gleamed white in the moonlight, the color of bleached bone. He cried out just as Janine was flung away from the recovered enemy.  
  
"Creep!" she managed as she was hauled to her feet by another of the dark- robed attackers. "Whadda'ya want with us, anyway?"  
  
"From you, my dear, very little." The leader stood rubbing his neck for several seconds, a touch of amusement in his horribly familiar voice. "Perhaps more from Dr. Spengler, eh, my friend?" With a flourish, the newcomer threw back his hood.  
  
Egon ceased the struggle against his captors to stare aghast at the face now revealed in the half-light. "Oh, my God," he breathed, slumping. "Not you."  
  
"I fear so," Walter Peck acknowledged, his laugh rising to slash the stillness of the cemetery -- and the peace of Egon Spengler -- like fragments of sharp-edged, broken glass.  
  
A deep, booming rumble only barely identifiable as another man's laughter originated from the cloaked hood of the being holding Janine. He tossed his head once, flicking back the hood to reveal another familiar face, one that caused Egon to sag in his captors' hands. "Ali!" he gasped, staring into dark features and small, cruel eyes. "But ... I saw you die! Saw your body...."  
  
Thick lips twisted into a rictis of a smile. "But I'm feeling much better," Peck's assistant smirked, giving Janine a cautionary shake. "Cut that out, babe, or I'm gonna have ta hurt you -- bad."  
  
"Cut this out, jerk!" she retorted, bringing her high heel down hard onto his instep. There was no reaction at first, then the negro leaned closer until he was no more than inches from her face. "I could cut it off instead," he sneered, wrapping his hand around her head. In a sudden action he yanked the woman forward, catching her lips in a brutal parody of a kiss. Janine struggled, lashing out with both fists and feet to no avail, for Ali could not be shaken off. Restrained several yards away, Egon could only rage silently, though not a single crack showed in the stoic armor which controlled his features.  
  
Finally, Ali raised his head, allowing Janine to slip in his grasp, spitting her revulsion. "You're ... you're not....." she gagged. "You taste like ... death."  
  
"Nobody's perfect," the other returned genially, puckering again. "Want seconds?"  
  
"Leave her alone, Peck," Egon ordered, his voice hard. "She hasn't done anything to you -- and she can't do you any harm."  
  
"But you can, Dr. Spengler." Peck swept forward, his dark cloak dragging on the grass. In a grand gesture, he swept it open to reveal a fully tailored tuxedo and ruffled shirt. He accepted their appraising looks for a moment, turning slowly on one heel to allow them a better view of the cloak's back. "So important to be well groomed for every occasion, don't you agree?  
  
Egon nodded slowly, his gaze drifting from the man's polished shoes to his short, fair hair and the patch adorning one eye "Very important," he agreed, "especially when your face looks like it's been rearranged by a Peterbilt."  
  
"Did I do that?" Janine asked gleefully, noticing for the first time their foe's off-center nose and the broken cheekbone just visible above the neatly trimmed beard, the patch adorning his right eye.  
  
Peck cracked his lips in a tight smile, exposing several missing teeth to go with his battered features. "He will pay for this," he snarled, all traces of urbanity momentarily banished. "Mr. Venkman will live a very long time in my care for the ... indignity...."  
  
"HA!" Janine crowed, bouncing on her toes. "Good fer him! I...." Ali's fingers tightened around her arm, cutting her words off into a short cry.  
  
"Janine!" Egon yelled, shaken out of his determined calm. "Release her!"  
  
At a gesture from Peck, Ali loosed his hold. She rotated her shoulders once, then stumbled to Egon's side to throw her arms around his neck. "What does he want from us?" she asked. "What?"  
  
"Samhaine." The word emerged from Egon's throat but was echoed throughout the clearing as though the very air itself reverberated with the sound. Peck nodded solemnly, his self-possession restored at once.  
  
"Samhaine," he repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. "Power. Life and death." He fixed Egon with his bright gaze. "Immortality."  
  
"It ain't gonna work, buster," Janine asserted bravely, though her voice shook. "We'll never open up the containment unit for you." She turned back to Spengler, who, despite the painful grip pinioning his own arms, was regarding her with weary pride. "Egon?"  
  
He swallowed heavily and Ali laughed, strolling across to pat the blond physicist heartily on the back. "Go ahead, smart boy, tell her. No? Then I will." He slipped an arm around Janine's waist, ignoring her furious kick in response. "You see, baby, we don't need you to open up that containment unit thing -- the Stantz kid already promised ta do that."  
  
"He won't do it," Janine spat back.  
  
"He really doesn't have any choice." Peck gestured and two of the silent guards moved forward, one carrying a length of rope, the other reaching for Janine's left hand. She made a fist and spun, intending to smash the guard in the face, then froze, an involuntary gasp working its way past her lips.  
  
"E-Egon," she stammered in a small voice. "Th-there's a s-skeleton in there."  
  
"We've met Peck's guards before," Spengler returned, bored. "You've picked up one or two more since last time, haven't you?" he inquired, cocking a brow at the blond-bearded man.  
  
Peck bowed from the waist. "Simple but useful helpers." He watched closely while Janine's hands were tightly bound behind her back. Ali then withdrew a long knife from the folds of his robe and pressed it against the woman's throat. A single drop of blood appeared where the blade touched skin, wending slowly along the silver expanse.  
  
"Yer turn, blondie," Ali growled, wiggling the knife ever so gently. "One move to escape and I cut her throat here and now." He bent slightly until his mouth was centimeters from Janine's hair. "We only need one of you, you know," he added, kissing her ear.  
  
Resigned, Spengler held out his hands, allowing one of the skeletal guards to bind him as they'd done Janine. Peck inspected their handiwork, then stepped back, satisfied. "None of us will help you," Spengler stated flatly. "And you may have broken Ray once...."  
  
"Not much left of him, was there?" Peck interrupted, grinning at the sapphire flame which appeared behind the other's red-rimmed glasses. "How do you think he's feels now, knowing that we're simply going to start all over again?"  
  
"He won't do it," Janine repeated firmly.  
  
Ali's eyes burned like coals, an uneathly red light in his destroyed face. "The pact is binding," he intoned. "The promise was sealed."  
  
"No choice at all," Peck agreed, stroking his beard. "For now, we'd best be off. I'd like to get things over with before the sun rises." He smiled widely, again revealing his broken teeth. "By this time tomorrow, Samhaine will be Lord of Eternal Night and I will have enough power to challenge the gods themselves!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Ali grumbled, giving Egon a push. "Save all that fer yer inauguration. Right now, we got us a visit to make -- and some old friends ta see."  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter 9

Peter Venkman prowled the second floor living room restlessly, his route taking him past Winston, whose lax form was stretched out across half the sectional couch, around the ectoplasmic puddle from a hovering Slimer, then to the window, where he would spend several minutes staring out into the night. Finally, he returned to the center of the living room and stopped by the entertainment unit built into one wall.  
  
"Three o'clock," he muttered, tapping the VCR's digital readout. "He should have been back by midnight at the latest."  
  
Ray, who had returned from another marathon lab session only minutes before, uncurled from his slumped position against the sofa's farther armrest to fix the psychologist with a bloodshot gaze. "Who should have?" he asked sleepily. "Did Egon go out?"  
  
Venkman, in the middle of his twentieth circuit of the room, paused by his tousled friend to stare at him irritably. "Why don't you go to bed?" he snapped. "You look frazzled."  
  
Ray blinked up at him, a puzzled frown etching itself between his auburn brows. "I'm fine," he protested, pulling himself up straight. "Where did Egon go? Did he have a date?"  
  
Winston swiped a hand across his forehead, then reached for the steaming mug on the coffee table. "Egon had an errand to run," he said casually, "but we expected him and Janine to be back before now."  
  
A little smile tugged at the corners of Ray's mouth. "With Janine?" he repeated with more than a touch of glee.  
  
Amusement flickered in the others' faces, and Peter shrugged. "I suppose it's possible that he decided to make a night of it," he said at last. Then the amusement faded and he shook his head. "No, not tonight; he would have called...."  
  
The phone rang.  
  
"You were saying?" Winston teased, replacing his mug on the table and picking up the receiver.  
  
Peter grinned and balanced one hip on the armrest of the couch beside Ray's right arm. "You realize," he said, tapping Ray on the top of the head, "that this means Egon's finally admitting his relationship with Janine. 'Bout time, too."  
  
Ray beamed. "Wouldn't it be great if they really did get together?" he exclaimed, giving Peter's knee an answering jab. "Kind of like keeping things in the family and all!" He paused, craning his neck until he could see Peter's face. "But what do you mean Egon's finally admitting it?"  
  
Peter's grin broadened. "Think about it, Ray," he urged, his voice becoming sing-song. "Allll those afternoons when Egon said he was too busy to go on a call with us; him and Janine allll alone in the firehouse...." He chuckled at the blush rising in Ray's cheeks. "Af-ternoon delight," he carolled off-key.  
  
Ray stopped poking Peter's knee and punched it instead. "Stop it, Peter! Egon said that Janine wasn't his type; he wouldn't ... play around with her like that!"  
  
"Would too!" the psychologist shot back.  
  
"Would not!"  
  
"Would too!"  
  
Ray folded his arms across his chest, directing a stubborn look at the blank television screen. "Egon wouldn't treat her bad," he finished hotly. "He's not that kind of a man."  
  
Peter allowed his knowing leer to fade. "Ray?" Stantz refused to look up until Peter forced the issue by taking his friend's ear between thumb and forefinger and giving it a twist. "Ray!"  
  
"Ow!" Ray swatted him away but deigned raise his head anyway. "I wish you would stop doing that!"  
  
"Poooor Ray," Slimer crooned, descending to pat the occultist sympathetically on the knee.  
  
Peter hesitated, then trailed his hand from the younger man's ear to his shoulder, where he allowed it to rest. "I was only teasing you," he admitted gently. "I don't think Egon would do Janine wrong, either. But you have to understand that Janine's in love with him -- no matter what Egon says," he added when Ray opened his mouth to interrupt. "And she is attractive ... in her own way ... and Egon is human."  
  
"Egon loooves Janine," Slimer chirped as a refrain.  
  
Ray sighed and leaned back, the protest dying before it could be uttered. "I don't know. Winston, what do you...." His words trailed off as he caught sight of the expression on the black Ghostbuster's face. "Are you all right?"  
  
Zeddemore sat numbly, the receiver dangling from one hand. "That was the police," he related, hanging up the phone. "Ecto 1 was found abandoned about a half-hour ago. A sheriff's deputy searched the area but couldn't locate Egon or Janine anywhere."  
  
"That's odd." Peter braced one sneaker against an opposing arm chair, swinging the other in a slow circle. "You don't suppose they broke down, do you?"  
  
Zeddemore shook his head. "Already asked. The key was in the ignition, so the deputy gave it a try; engine turned right over.""  
  
"Where did they find the car?" Stantz asked, his eyes wide.  
  
Zeddemore exchanged a look with Venkman, then cleared his throat. "Mawtawk Cemetery."  
  
What little color there was in Ray's face immediately drained away. "M- Mawtawk," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Oh, no."  
  
"'Oh, no,' what, Ray?" Peter inquired, staring down at his friend's bent head. "Do you know something about this?"  
  
The phone rang again. Very warily, as though expecting it to sprout fangs at any second, Winston again picked it up. "Hello?" He listened for some minutes, his dark skin taking on a decidedly grayish cast.  
  
Peter leaped to his feet. He stepped across Ray's legs, reaching the older man's side in two strides. "What is it?" he asked, removing the receiver from Zeddemore's hand and clapping it to his ear. "No one there."  
  
Winston licked his lips, taking a moment to collect himself while Peter recradled the phone. "They have Egon and Janine," he said blankly. "And if we don't do exactly as we're told ... they die."  
  
Peter's fists clenched automatically. "Who has them?"  
  
Winston drew in a breath, holding it for a long minute before releasing it through his teeth. He shifted his gaze from Peter's taut features to where Ray still sat in his corner, unmoving. "I don't know -- why don't you ask him that."  
  
Peter turned, following the black's line of sight, then he, too, stared. "Ray?" But Stantz neither answered nor raised his head. Peter retraced his steps, reached down in a quick gesture and hauled Ray to his feet by the front of his jumpsuit. "We don't have time for you to play games," he snarled, giving the man a rough shake. "What do you know about this?"  
  
Brown eyes snapped open, Ray's expression a mixture of fear, worry and -- curiously -- defiance. He stared at Peter unseeingly, his breath quickening. "It ... it was ... him," he managed, clutching his right hand protectively against his chest. "Him!"  
  
"Who?" A yank pulled Ray to within inches of Peter's lowered face. "Tell me who it is."  
  
Ray began to tremble violently, his jaw clenched tight. He parted his lips but all that emerged was a strangled moan.  
  
For once, Peter ignored the signs of distress in his friend. "Tell me," he urged, shaking him again. "Egon's life is at stake."  
  
That worked. Ray stiffened, determination hardening his eyes. He took a short breath but it cost him two tries before he could gasp out the single word "Peck!" Then he collapsed.  
  
Shocked, Peter nearly allowed his friend to fall, but managed to swing him back onto the couch instead. Ray slumped against the armrest, another soft moan the only sound of which he was capable for several minutes.  
  
"Peck." Winston repeated the name slowly, his own expression blanking. "Walter Peck. I thought he was dead."  
  
"Obviously not." Like a marionette with its strings cut, Peter sat abruptly on the coffee table, barely catching himself on its edge. "Peck is back -- and he has Egon."  
  
"And Janine," Winston added softly. He made to say more, then stopped to again stare at Ray's huddled form. "So now we know what's been bothering you all this time."  
  
That got Peter's attention, as well. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Why didn't you tell us?" he asked tiredly. "Didn't you think we'd believe you? Or is this something you would have gotten around to eventually?"  
  
In answer, Stantz raised eyes literally glazed with pain. Visibly striving to force his body to obey, he held out his shaking right hand and turned it over. The odd-shaped cicatrix in the center of his palm burned scarlet, actually glowing slightly, even in the lamplight. "I'm ... sorry ...." he gasped.  
  
Peter stared at that grim souvenier of past terrors, then reached out to gently cup that hand in his own. Ray flinched as though expecting a blow, but didn't withdraw and, after a moment, Peter looked up, his initial horror shifting to compassion. "All this time?" he asked without accusation. "You've had to live with this all this time ... alone?"  
  
"I-I'm sorry; I ... wanted to tell...." Ray lifted his hand out of Peter's and laid it in his lap; the faintly glowing scar flared once and then faded away. "It's better," he breathed with relief. "Doesn't hurt so bad."  
  
Winston slipped quietly onto the sofa next to Ray, the cushions sagging under their combined weight. "So that's how he worked it," he said, draping a supportive arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Kept you from coming to us. We wondered what was wrong with you, homeboy, but we never imagined...."  
  
"How could we?" Peter interrupted harshly. "Peck is supposed to be dead. I...." He broke off, his expression bitter. "You should have let me kill him," he bit out, studying the faded denim covering his legs. "I should have killed him."  
  
Winston shook his head firmly. "I should have killed him," he corrected, thumping his own chest.  
  
"I'm sorry." That was Ray again, his soft voice still shaky but stronger than before. "This is my fault...."  
  
Peter's head snapped up at that. He took Ray by both shoulders, pulling him out of Winston's light hold. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again," he stated flatly, his green eyes brooking no argument. "When you don't have any choice at all, there is no blame -- remember that ... no matter what happens."  
  
Ray nodded if without spirit, and Peter allowed him to sag back into the crook of Winston's arm. The black Ghostbuster gave him a quick squeeze and leaned closer. "Can you tell us anything at all, Ray? Any detail could make the difference."  
  
The scar in Ray's hand flared again and Ray, lips parted to speak, uttered a little cry instead and doubled over, only Winston's arm and Peter's quick snatch preventing him from falling altogether.  
  
"It's all right," Winston said in alarm. "You don't have to say anything. It's all right."  
  
Peter grasped Ray's right hand and forced it open; the scar faded almost instantly back to its dull red color, and Ray sagged. "All right," Peter said, releasing Ray's hand and getting to his feet, "so you can't say anything; that doesn't mean that I can't."  
  
"What are you going to do, Pete?" Winston asked curiously, following suit.  
  
Peter shrugged. "Call the cops to start with. Egon said Peck's supernatural contacts were probably axed, but that doesn't mean he couldn't hire some human joker, like he did Ali."  
  
Winston shook his head. "No good. Guy on the phone -- and it was probably Peck -- said he'd know if we called anyone in and...."  
  
"And what?" Venkman prodded, resting his hands on his hips.  
  
Winston swallowed. "And send us Egon back a piece at a time."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"He also told us to be downstairs with the garage door open exactly at four," Zeddemore continued, stepping between Peter and the still-seated Ray to pace the middle of the floor. Slimer flew slow circles at ceiling level directly over his head.  
  
Peter and Ray both glanced at the clock, then exchanged a dismayed look. "Ten minutes," the psychologist announced unnecessarily. "No time to set a trap. No time...." A crafty look appeared on his face. "Except...." He wandered away from the couch.  
  
"You have an idea?" Ray asked hopefully, pulling himself to his feet. "Peter, do you know what we can do?"  
  
"Know what you can't do," Venkman explained, clapping his younger friend on the shoulder. "It figures that if you can't work the containment grid, you can't release Samhaine. If I cancel your codes...." Ray stopped dead and Peter, halfway to the staircase, also paused to regard him curiously. "What's wrong?"  
  
Stantz dropped his eyes, his shoulders drooping again. "I already tried that, Peter," he said tiredly. "I couldn't do it."  
  
Peter grinned, that old devil-may-care light returning to his eyes. He backed up a step and took Ray's forearms, giving them a playful shake. "You can't," he said gaily, "I can."  
  
Ray brightened at once, his eager hope mirroring Peter's. "Hurry!" he urged, giving the psychologist a shove towards the steps, "before he...." He broke off, an odd expression crossing his features.  
  
"What is it?" Peter demanded, catching Ray's left arm as the man's legs gave way. "Ray?"  
  
Stantz opened his mouth but no sound came out, not even the rasp of normal respiration. Winston was at his side in an instant, helping Peter lower the young occultist to the ground, then hoisting him to a sitting position against Peter's bent leg. "He can't breathe," Zeddemore said, unzipping Ray's jumpsuit at the neck. "Ray, what is it?"  
  
"Ray hurt?" Slimer asked, perching on Peter's shoulder.  
  
Stantz' eyes opened, his face contorted and already turning blue. He clawed at his throat, while his lips moved slowly, forming words both Winston and Peter understood immediately. "Do it."  
  
"Peck knows," Winston muttered, drawing back. "Somehow, he knows what you're planning and he's killing Ray to stop you."  
  
Peter stared aghast at the man in his arms. Ray's weak thrashing ceased and his eyes burned, his fingers tangling in the front of Peter's shirt. "Do it."  
  
"No." Peter's merry resolve evaporated as though it'd never been. "I won't do it," he said louder, addressing the empty air. "Let him go and I won't touch the lock."  
  
Ray went suddenly limp, his chest heaving. He breathed deeply, great gulps of the oxygen rich air, while the color of his face and lips slowly returned to near normal. Peter held him through it, until the brown eyes again opened to stare at the wall with evident despair. "It ... it could have been ... over," he panted, releasing Peter's shirtfront to rub his throat. "It would have ... been over."  
  
Peter shook his head. "I wasn't ready to lose you," he said gently. He waited until Ray looked up before going on, his voice as solemn as his expression. "We may not have any options later -- you understand that, don't you? When there are no options..." He paused, having to swallow before finishing with, "then maybe we all go down."  
  
Ray nodded, his own solemnity not muting the affection in his expressive eyes. "You do what you have to, Peter," he said very quietly. "I understand."  
  
Peter searched Ray's face for several seconds, then dredged up a cocky grin. "Let's go meet the folks," he quipped, wrapping an arm around Ray's chest. He got to his feet, bringing Ray up with him, Winston assisting on the other side.  
  
Ray steadied himself against Peter's arm, a surprised look crossing his face. "You're shaking," he exclaimed, apparently unaware of the quiver in his own voice.  
  
"Look who's talking," Winston muttered from behind.  
  
"I won't let him hurt you again, Peter," Ray vowed in a steadier voice than he'd used thus far. "I'll stop him somehow, I promise."  
  
"We have to go downstairs now," Winston interrupted, resting his hands on each of his fellows' shoulders. "It's time."  
  
No funeral procession ever boasted attendants so grim as the three men who trooped down the flight of stairs to garage level and gathered around the empty receptionist's desk. Slimer, disdaining the stairs, oozed between two floorboards, regathering himself atop the file cabinets from where he watched the ongoings with puzzled curiosity.  
  
At precisely 3:59 am, Winston pressed the button to open the main door, allowing a long, sleek limousine to glide soundlessly inside. As black as the night itself, the immaculate machine pulled to a stop in the spot normally occupied by the reconditioned hearse the team used for transport, and a perfectly muted engine shut off. The three Ghostbusters stared vainly at the black-tinted windows, striving for a glimpse inside. None moved, however, and for a long moment the garage and all within might have been carved in wax.  
  
Then a mist began to gather, swirling ominously in the chill draft of the open door. Slowly, the swirling slowed and four figures began to coalesce, dark even in the glare from the overheads. Hoods formed first, trailing into long cloaks which swept the floor in opaque folds. A noxious odor filled the open spaces, the smells of rot and death and the ancient things man recoils from as a matter of instinct. As one, the Ghostbusters took a step nearer each other, tense and braced.  
  
The figures solidified at last, then drifted closer to surround the waiting men as a veritable wall. Winston gagged involuntarily as the stench followed them over; Peter and Ray stood impassive, only a flaring of Peter's nostrils betraying his consciousness of it at all.  
  
Skeletal hands emerged from the folds of two of the beings' robes, one set to clamp Winston's arms and twist them behind his back, the other to dig brutally into Peter's shoulders, forcing him to his knees with a cry. That provoked a reaction from both Slimer and Ray. Uttering a hoarse shout, the latter threw himself bodily at the spectral shape, striking it with the full weight of his anger. So violent was his attack that he actually succeeded in dislodging its grip from Peter.  
  
Sensing an opening, Peter twisted abruptly, loosening his left side. There was no opportunity to accomplish more, unfortunately, for at that very moment the bony fingers reestablished their hold in the nerve centers above his collarbone. He yelped once before clamping his lips tight shut, neither Ray's powerful blows nor Slimer's determined attack having any effect whatsoever on his captor.  
  
A car door opened with a click, preceding by seconds the low chuckle which originated from its still invisible occupants.  
  
"You see?" a velvety and hated voice proclaimed. "I told you they would be pleased to see us! Even our dear Dr. Stantz."  
  
At the first word, Ray froze, his skin chalk. He turned slowly to face the car, fist still raised mid-swing, to stare at the darkened windows. Even Peter stopped struggling, his pain momentarily forgotten in the remembered horror of that voice. Winston, secured and helpless, glared balefully in the same direction.  
  
"We did like you wanted, Peck," he called harshly. "Where are Egon and Janine?"  
  
A figure hurtled out of the car, propelled by a firm kick. Janine, bound and lightly gagged, landed butt first on the hard concrete, followed at no large interval by the similarly trussed if ungagged Egon Spengler.  
  
"Egon," Ray breathed, finding his voice. "You're alive!"  
  
Janine glared, her "Thanks fer includin' me!" muffled by the handkerchief tied around her mouth. Ray forced himself into action, advancing step by step on his downed comrades. Egon appeared not to notice him; the blond's full attention remained locked on the car's interior. Ray closed on him and knelt, pulling Janine into a sitting position with one hand and hesitantly touching Egon's leg with the other. "Are you all right?" he asked in a hushed voice.  
  
Egon spared him a single look and then a second one. "He didn't hurt us, Raymond," he answered quietly. "We were only the lever to get to you."  
  
"Mflg!" Janine snapped, kicking Ray's thigh. "Gmeg!"  
  
Ray started at the blow, then hurriedly pulled away the gag from her mouth. "I'm sorry, Janine," he said, his tone adding a wealth of meaning to that simple statement.  
  
Janine's glare softened fractionally. "Ain't yer fault," she said, her broad Brooklyn accent thickening. "It's all on Blender Face, there." She jerked her head at the car and the neatly dressed man emerging from within.  
  
Walter Peck grinned broadly at Ray's expression. "Hello, Raymond," he purred, standing up and brushing at a speck of nonexistent lint on his cloak. He paused, examining the young occultist critically, finally nodding his satisfaction. "You don't know how glad I am to see you again ... healthy?" he asked in an amiable tone. "Love the long hair; very becoming."  
  
Ray, still kneeling at Egon's side, stared transfixed at the bearded man, visibly trembling. "Egon said you were dead," he blurted, his fingers closing convulsively around Egon's leg.  
  
Peck cocked his head interestedly, moving aside to allow another figure to exit the car. "Did he? Well, then, perhaps I am; it's sometimes hard to know for certain."  
  
"Yer tellin' me?" rumbled another voice from behind.  
  
"Oh, my lord." Winston sagged suddenly, only his captor's grip preventing him from hitting the floor altogether. He watched, horror stricken as the fourth and last figure came into view.  
  
Rather than the cloaked elegance of Peck's apparel, this man's massive body was plainly garbed in jeans and t-shirt, his bald head bare. Lips swollen and twisted by severe burns drew back from yellowed teeth, and a face far too recognizable despite its destroyed flesh grinned with easy humor.  
  
"I waited a long time ta see you again," Ali boomed, regarding Winston closely. "A long time." The grin widened, a twinkle appearing in the man's small eyes. "You, too, Sweetcheeks," he added, winking lecherously in Peter's direction. Peter gulped audibly. "What'sa matter, kid?" Ali asked, noticing Ray for the first time. "I don't get no hello?"  
  
Ray continued to stare silently, and the disfigured black man gave a disdainful snort before stepping closer. "Nothin' ta say to me, Ray?" he sneered, straddling Spengler's prone form. "Don't want ta beg me again? Caved right in last time we threatened your boyfriend, didn't ya?"  
  
"We're going to do more than threaten, this time," Peck purred, emerging from behind Ali's bulk to approach Peter. "Mr. Venkman and I particularly have something to discuss."  
  
"Something personal," Ali added, turning from a frozen Stantz to a furiously struggling Peter. "Don't we, Sweetcheeks? We got interrupted last time, but...."  
  
"Leave ... leave h-him alone," Ray breathed, almost inaudibly.  
  
"Pond scum!" Janine grated, sidling closer to Egon.  
  
Peck ignored them both to finger his eye patch thoughtfully. "I blame you all for my earlier defeats. You cost me dearly."  
  
"Yeah," Peter retorted, jerking his head toward the big limo. "I can see how broke you are these days."  
  
Peck followed his gaze briefly, his expression harder than ever. "The price of failure has nothing to do with monetary losses," he explained coolly. "My masters deal with far more ... substantial values." With that, he threw off the eye patch, allowing it to drop carelessly to the floor, and looked up. The flesh beneath seemed stark in the light, torn and ugly where the eye looked to have been physically ripped out. "This could have been you," he joshed, wagging his head in Ray's direction, "had you been a little more experienced with that knife."  
  
He turned to Winston, his expression implacable. "It was you who actually destroyed my power base."  
  
"And me," Ali said, wrapping a hand the size of a small ham around the black Ghostbuster's throat. "Not something a man forgets -- bein' fried."  
  
"Should'a done ... a ... better job," Winston returned, choking when the hand tightened.  
  
"Who says you didn't?" Ali asked, not losing his smile. "I might even be dead; if I ain't, it's too close for us ta call."  
  
"I will fix all of that," Peck interjected magnaminously, "once my power is restored."  
  
"Fixed or refried," Ali grumbled, releasing Winston. "Not holdin' my breath either way, but it's the only shot I got."  
  
"Then," Peck went on, unheeding, "I can take proper care of all of you." He eyed Peter thoughtfully, patting his head as he might a child. "You do remember my dusts, don't you, Mr. Venkman?" he asked, leaning so close that Peter's hair was stirred by his breath. "The pretty red dust?"  
  
Peter cringed back as far as the skeletal hands holding him would allow. "No...." he croaked, mesmerized by the other's mild blue eyes. "Not ... that."  
  
"Peter!" Slimer's high falsetto rang loudly in the chambered room. Darting from ceiling level, the friendly specter dove on the unsuspecting Peck, his attack for once not limited to depositing the sticky substance of which he was composed on his foe. Shrinking and gathering his substantiality to the full, ghost crashed into human, knocking Peck roughly to the ground. Slimer rose again, swooping in for another attack but this time his foe was ready. Peck rolled aside, withdrawing and uncapping a yellow vial and hurling its contents upward. The powder struck Slimer full in the face, eliciting a pained shriek from ecto-plasmic lips. With a watery sounding thump, Slimer fell to the ground and disappeared. 


	10. Chapter 10

SLIMER!" That anguished cry came from five throats simultaneously; the Ghostbusters stared aghast at the wet spot which marked Slimer's disappearance, stunned disbelief on their faces.  
  
"He's ... gone," Winston said disbelievingly. "Just ... gone?"  
  
"Oh, Slimer," Janine wailed, starting to cry.  
  
"You'll pay for that." Peter's voice was deadly quiet and utterly cold -- like an open grave. "This time you die for sure."  
  
"I'll see to it," Winston added in the same tone.  
  
"It's hard to kill someone when you're in hell yourself," Peck murmured, withdrawing a red vial from his pocket. He smiled. "Your hands actually melted, didn't they, Mr. Venkman? Or so you thought -- and so you lived through, illusion or not." He reached down and took Peter's chin into his palm, tilting it up with easy familiarity. "How would you like to become a permanent citizen of that most fascinating place?" he offered, staring deeply into Peter's eyes. "Even now, I have the time for you."  
  
A small sound escaped Peter then, practically unnoticeable in the large room yet all the more heart-wrenching because of it. Peck's smile widened. "So, you do remember...."  
  
He got no farther for, at that moment, Ray leaped into action. Lithe muscles brought him to his feet and across the room before either Peck or Ali could react. Ignoring Ali, he hit Peck low, bringing him to the ground and then rolling free of the man's flailing legs. Peck brought up his left fist, striking Ray a solid blow to the stomach, then swung a right to the jaw. His head snapped back but Stantz was a man possessed, impervious to pain. His eyes narrowed, he made a hoarse noise deep in his throat and straddled the downed foe, ignoring the blows aimed at his face and chest to sink hooked fingers into the flesh of Walter Peck's throat. "Never ... touch ... them," he muttered, his face a mask. "Won't let ... you."  
  
Peck hit him again, catching Ray heavily on the temple. Ray shook his head, his grip loosened only briefly but long enough for Peck to screech the name "Ali!" before the steely fingers once more contracted.  
  
From the side, Ali watched the fracas interestedly, at one point even squatting briefly to get a better look at Ray's face. "Kid ain't bad," he remarked as an aside, chuckling when Peck gurgled something inaudible. "Put a few pounds on him an' teach him how to fight dirty, an' he might make a first class scrapper."  
  
He draped an arm casually around Peter's shoulders and whispered "You never did say if you an' the kid had something going." Seeing Peter's grimace, he made to say more but, on hearing his name, instead crossed to the struggling pair, grabbing Ray by the collar and hauling him bodily off of Peck's prone form. "Sorry, kid, can't let you damage the boss until he pays off."  
  
Undaunted and unhearing, Ray whirled, transferring his white-lipped fury to the black giant and renewing his assault. A deft twist freed his collar; he followed through with a quick one-two combination, forcing air from the other's lungs, while Peck scrambled for the sidelines and safety.  
  
Ali grunted, the unexpected strength in those blows backing him up a full pace. Ray followed recklessly, aiming for the black man's face, but Ali, far quicker than his bulk might suggest, ducked beneath the blow, allowing it to whistle harmlessly by. He grabbed Ray's wrist as it passed, using it and Ray's own momentum to lever them closer together, and drove his free hand into Ray's unprotected ribcage again and again. Ray cried out, doubling over, but was not out of the fight yet; he brought his left hand up in a beautiful roundhouse which rocked the other's head, blood spurting from the man's squat, melted nose.  
  
Instead of falling, however, Ali managed a damp smile and brought his knee up, aiming for Ray's groin. The occultist turned, more by accident than design, catching the blow on his thigh and plowing in again. The two traded punches for several long minutes to the accompaniment of Peck's furious curses and Janine's screams.  
  
The end, when it came, was fast. Ali's smug grin had slowly faded as the easy victory he'd obviously been expecting continued to elude him. Ray, little more than half Ali's weight, was heavily marked by the fight but unstoppable nonetheless, impervious to the solid body punches Ali landed and too fast for the larger man to corner. Time and again Ali would nearly snag him only to have Ray dance lightly out of reach, invariably managing to land a blow of his own in passing. Finally, the big negro paused, his breath coming heavily, his tiny eyes narrowed. He dropped his defenses, momentarily exposing his midsection. Ray, having lost all technique to his fighting long ago -- one reason the bigger and far more experienced Ali had been unable to defeat him thus far -- leaped for the opening, plowing in with fists swinging. Ali waited until the younger man had committed himself, then jerked his head back, rolling with the first punch. At that moment, Peck, unnoticed in the tumult, moved, sweeping a metal stapler off of Janine's desk and bringing it up. Ray, lost in the blood-madness of combat, never saw it coming; the metal impacted brutally against the side of his already bruised face and temple; there was a dull thud, and Ray dropped to lie in a heap on the cold concrete.  
  
The spectators let out a collective sigh, as though just remembering to breathe. "Ray," Peter whispered, beginning his own struggles again.  
  
Egon staggered to his feet, fortunately able to use his front-bound hands to pull himself up. He crossed the intervening space to Ray's side and dropped to his knees, turning the younger man gently onto his back. Ray's head lolled, the blood masking his face flowing backwards, matting his fine hair and staining the floor red.  
  
Ali braced himself against the desk, ignoring the stream of crimson which still gushed from his own nose, to shake his head. "Blast ... think I got some ... ribs gone," he panted, spitting out a broken tooth. He straightened painfully, his destroyed features contorted. "The ... the kid's tougher ... than he looks."  
  
"If the 'kid' is dead," Peck retorted sarcastically, grimacing at the sticky residue from Slimer's attack, which soaked his tuxedo through, "we won't have anyone to open the containment unit for us ... right away. Close that garage door."  
  
Ali punched the automatic door button. "D'ya think anyone heard all that noise and called the cops?"  
  
Peck spared him a single disgusted look. "In New York?" he asked rhetorically, scooping up the unbroken vial and stowing it in a side pocket. "Shut up," he added, glaring at Janine.  
  
Janine returned the glare but fell silent, having to bite her lip over the involuntary sobs which continued to come.  
  
Peck next kicked Egon aside to kneel himself by Ray, snagging a handful of long auburn hair and yanking Ray's head up. "Wake up, Dr. Stantz," he grated. "Wake up or I'll have Ali kill the woman right now. She makes too much noise, anyway."  
  
Janine gasped her alarm, but Ray moaned softly and opened his eyes, staring blankly up at the bearded man. His face, what could be seen of it through the smeared blood, was bruised where Ali's punches had landed true, one eye swollen nearly shut, his lip split. His breathing was shallow and obviously painful, and it brought Egon back to his side in an instant.  
  
"Easy does it, Raymond." Spengler slipped his bound hands under Ray's neck, insinuating his arm under Peck's and giving the man a nudge. Peck fell away scowling, and Egon very carefully slid around until Ray rested half in his lap. Ray whimpered softly at the motion but his brown eyes focussed, settling blearily on the blond physicist's face.  
  
"E-gon," he whispered.  
  
Spengler forced a smile. "It's all right," he began, twisting his wrists to awkwardly pat Ray's shoulder. "We...."  
  
"We," Peck interrupted, producing a serviceable looking Browning self- loader from one pocket, "are running out of time." He crossed to Janine, using one hand to haul her to her feet, then clapping the pistol against her temple. "We're all going downstairs right now," he ordered in tones which allowed for no argument. "I want you all to be present when Samhain returns." He grinned. "You are to be my first offering to him; I think he'll be pleased with my gift, don't you?"  
  
Egon looked up sharply. "Ray is in no condition...."  
  
"For her sake..." Peck shook Janine roughly, his fingers digging into her arm. "...he'd better be in condition to do anything I say." He recrossed the room and gestured at the staircase in the far corner with the automatic. "That way," he advised them more mildly.  
  
The skeletal entities holding Peter and Winston immobile relaxed their grips. Peter straightened and turned, taking a step in the direction Peck had indicated, the entities automatically following. But Peter had other ideas. With a loud shout, he spun and sprang, in motion before Peck could retrain the gun on Janine's head. Peck, however, was not as unprepared as he appeared; rather than threatening Janine, the Browning came up and fired -- at Peter! Peter, still in mid-air, twisted sharply but could do little to escape the .9 millimeter projectile which streaked towards him at well over the speed of sound. He cried out suddenly and dropped, clapping a hand to his side, blood immediately beginning to seep between his fingers.  
  
Janine's scream was lost in the echo of the thunder which filled the hall, then choked off when Peck tightened his hold brutally on her arm. Winston lurched forward several steps, literally dragging his own captor along. Avoiding Ali's half-hearted snatch, he reached Peter's side and fell to his knees, the entity releasing him at a gesture from Peck. "Pete?" he called, taking the psychologist by both shoulders. "Pete, can you hear me?"  
  
Venkman, his face taut, opened his eyes. "What ... what happened?" he asked blankly. "Did he...?"  
  
Winston nodded. "'Fraid so, homeboy. Let me take a look." He pried away Peter's fingers, then ripped the shirt open, using the brand new and extremely neat hole in the cotton as a starting point. Peter raised his head curiously, craning his neck in an attempt to see the wound for himself; Winston pushed him flat, holding him thus with a hand on his chest until he'd finished his own rapid examination.  
  
"Not too bad," he decided at last. "Looks like it just caught the skin and muscle and kept on going. You'll need a couple of stitches but that's about it."  
  
"It doesn't hurt...." Peter began, then stopped, a surprised look crossing his face. "Oh, yes it does," he gritted, slapping his hand back against the wound. "Took ... a minute...."  
  
"It'll probably hurt a lot worse pretty quick," Zeddemore told him practically. "Here, let go again." He stuffed a handkerchief fished from his back pocket into the holed shirt, then replaced Peter's palm against it, pressing tight. "This should help stop the bleeding."  
  
"I suppose," Peck spoke up in a board voice, "that no one particularly cares whether or not I spatter this pretty woman's brains all over the wall?"  
  
"If it shuts her up," Ali grumbled, prodding carefully at his swollen jaw, "I'm all for it."  
  
"I didn't say nothin' this time!" Janine spat automatically.  
  
Winston slipped an arm around Peter's shoulders and helped him into a sitting position, waiting only a moment before pulling him the rest of the way to his feet. Peter swayed back against Winston's arm, his face paling, then he took a deep breath and pulled away, bracing himself against the railed divider leading to his office.  
  
"I'm fine," he said unconvincingly but with determination. "You'd better help Ray."  
  
Winston offered him a single sharp look before nodding and making his way to where Spengler sat clumsily holding Ray Stantz. He hiked up his cream- colored slacks and crouched, studying Ray's eyes, relaxing fractionally when they focussed on him with something akin to cognizance. "How you doin', kid?" he asked, brushing an over-long strand of hair out of the younger man's face.  
  
Stantz licked his lips, his jaw clenched. "Help me up," he ordered, raising one hand.  
  
Zeddemore exchanged a worried look with Egon then complied, using both hands to lift the occultist out of Egon's lap, his face losing some of its natural color when Ray cried out softly at the first touch. Winston hesitated, but a glance at Peck's face, at the gun again pointed at Janine's head, disabused him of any notions toward disobedience. He transferred his hold, slipping one of Ray's arms over his own shoulders, then rose, bringing the man up with him although not releasing his support as he had with Peter. Ray sagged but did not cry out again, merely lifted his free hand to his face and swiped some of the blood out of his eyes so that he could see.  
  
"Downstairs?" Peck suggested again, with a sigh.  
  
The steps were negotiated slowly and one at a time, Ali leading the way then waiting at the bottom to ensure that there was no action taken by the Ghostbusters once they were out of Peck's sight. He moved no more quickly than they, his hobbling gait tangible evidence of the damage Stantz had done him during their battle. Peck descended last, his pace measured, not letting go his hold on a subdued and frightened Janine Melnitz.  
  
The skeletal entities herded the team to a spot only yards from the wall opposite the stairs, where Ali grabbed Ray by the front of his jumpsuit. "You, too," he snarled, swinging him out of Winston's grip and giving the black Ghostbuster a shove. Winston glared but obeyed, joining Egon, Janine and a drooping Peter where directed.  
  
Peck waved his hand, mouthed the word wall, then repeated it louder. The nether-beings acknowledged his command with a nod, then began to thin, spreading their forms into a barrier of dark, shimmering energy that completely encircled the startled Ghostbusters.  
  
Egon's brows went up and he reached out, touching the wall warily with one finger. Electricity speared out like a tongue, licking angrily at his extended hand. He yelped and withdrew, sucking ruefully at his singed fingers. After a moment's thought, he extended his bound wrists to Winston, who first guided Peter in Janine's direction, then bent to tug on the knots.  
  
Janine waited impatiently while Peter untied her ropes, then slipped a slender arm around his waist. "Hold on ta' me, Dr. V.," she invited the wobbly man. "If you fall down, there won't be enough room in here fer us to stand."  
  
Peter raised a brow at that but accepted the offer without his usual sarcastic response. He leaned heavily on her shoulder, holding her tighter than could be considered absolutely necessary from a purely physical viewpoint.  
  
"How do you like bein' fried?" Ali taunted nastily, giving Ray an absent shake but addressing Winston. "How 'bout you, brother? Want to give it a try yourself?" Winston continued to work on Egon's bonds, grunting his satisfaction when the rope came loose. Egon rubbed at his chafed wrists and Ali chuckled, a loud, harsh rumble. "Don't want to try it yet, eh? No problem -- you'll get your chance ... real soon." He released Ray, who nearly fell before catching himself on the main control panel located to the right of the unit itself. Ray braced his legs and wrapped both arms around his injured chest, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the dirty concrete on the floor.  
  
Peck ignored them all to approach the containment unit. He climbed the three steps leading to the airlock, examining it and the attendant instrumentation carefully for several long minutes. Then he crossed the platform to the scanning grid which controlled access to the unit itself. He punched a button at random and the computer blinked to life, the grid lighting up and a pleasant feminine voice requesting "Identification, please."  
  
Peck scowled, kicking the huge containment unit sharply before turning to face the room. "I believe that's your cue, Raymond," he said, recovering his facade of urbanity in an instant. "Time to keep your promise."  
  
"The pact is sealed," Ali intoned, staring expectantly at Stantz. "It is time."  
  
"N-no." Ray stared back, looking from Peck to Ali to his friends, his battered face stripped of all control, leaving only terror and pain and despair, all lying well beyond the edges of sanity. "Peter ... Egon, please ... help me," he begged, a last desperate appeal.  
  
Peter growled something and barrelled forward, shoving Janine unceremoniously aside. He dove at the shimmering wall of energy which separated him from Stantz, striking it with 170 pounds of unbridled fury. The barrier shivered but, rather than passing through it, Peter hung there impaled on a dozen arcs of blue light. His body bowed backwards, his mouth opened in a scream, but there was no sound save the fateful crackle of electricity.  
  
Winston was the first to break free of the surprise which held them all motionless. He braced himself and reached out, snagging Peter by the collar and catapulting himself backwards all in one smooth maneuver. Egon stepped in then, catching them both before they could strike the rear of their 'cell,' then helping to lower Peter to the ground. "Don't move, Peter," he admonished, feeling for a pulse.  
  
Venkman spent several seconds gasping for breath, then groaned loudly and sat up, pulling his hand out of Egon's and returning it to his still- bleeding side. "I-I'm sorry ... Ray," he managed, sagging against Egon's chest.  
  
Winston rolled over wearily, then rose to position himsef mere inches from the barrier. "It doesn't matter what he does to us now, Ray," he said quietly. "We played along as long as we could looking for an opening but there isn't one left." He shook his head, obsidian eyes piercing Ray's topaz ones calmly. "Time to just say no, kid," he finished, raising both hands.  
  
Ray gazed back steadily, then turned until he could see Janine, Egon and, finally, Peter, who was struggling to stand. "No matter what he does," the psychologist declared, leaning against Egon's arm, "you can't release Samhain." He smiled faintly, adding "This is your chance to do what you wanted -- to change history."  
  
Stantz shook his head. "You were worth it once," he murmured very softly. He ignored Peter's protest, and climbed to the platform, using the metal railing to pull himself along, his steps slow and laborious. He passed a grinning Peck, stopped at the scanner and pressed the same button that Peck had earlier.  
  
"Identification, please," the voice requested again.  
  
Ray cleared his throat. "Ray Stantz, code 14325700."  
  
"Voice print and access codes confirmed," the computer acknowledged at once. "Prepare for laser scan verification." Ray raised his right hand, pausing when Peter urgently called his name.  
  
"Don't do it," Venkman beseeched, his eyes desperate, his plea impassioned. "There are too many lives at stake."  
  
Ray's tight features softened into an smile, weary yet infinitely gentle. "I love you, Peter," he said softly, not turning. "I love all of you very much." And then he pressed his palm against the scanner and shut his eyes.  
  
The lights dimmed slightly and a low alarm clanged, almost drowning out the computer's "Identity confirmed. Access granted."  
  
The alarm cut off and Peck stepped expectantly to the trap slot. "At last," he chortled, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "I've waited so long."  
  
"Maybe he doesn't know how to work the airlock," Egon muttered under his breath. He gawked when the lever began to move by itself; it turned into the 'unlocked' position and the trap gate slid forward. "So that's what that extra wiring was for," he exclaimed in sudden understanding.  
  
The lights dropped still further and a chill breeze began to blow, an ethereal wind that sprang up from seemingly nowhere to swirl cyclone like around the room. At the same time a spectral mist began to flow from the now-open unit, coalescing immediately into the rough shape of a man wearing long robes. Where the head should be, however, the mist remained, forming and reforming until it achieved the rough circular shape of a jack-o- lantern, adorned with blazing eyes and gaping mouth.  
  
"Samhaine." Peck breathed the word reverently, leaving the platform to drop to his knees before the creature. "At last, you've returned."  
  
"'Bout time," Ali muttered, but only to himself.  
  
"I AM FREE!" The nether-lord the Celts had once worshipped, the Spirit of Halloween, raised both arms, allowing the long, draping sleeves to fall away, and gestured at the assorted spirits who followed him through the trap. "Free at last." Lightning flashed, striking floor, ceiling and walls indiscriminately, and thunder rang in the close confines. The humans cringed before such unbridled fury, Egon pulling Janine close with one arm and using the other to shield his eyes, Winston and Peter backing away as far as they could without electrocuting themselves on the barrier wall.  
  
Only Ray seemed unaffected by such a blatant display of power. He remained as he was, eyes closed, head bowed and right hand pressed against the laser scanner, unmoving and ignored by even the specters which zoomed madly around the room.  
  
Peck dared to stand. "Samhaine," he began pompously, brushing aside a small entity which glued itself to his leg. "I am the one who freed you from the containment unit as I swore I would. It is I who claim the reward -- the restoration of my former glory."  
  
The nether-lord deigned look down at the preening man, his non-human face reflecting only scorn. "I promised you nothing, flesh thing," he spat. "You are human. Humans will be wiped off of this planet before ere the sun does rise again! I, Samhaine, swear it!" The ground rumbled, more heard than felt at first, then the building began to quiver ever so slightly. Samhaine smiled, his gaping mouth taking on the same eerie glow as his eyes. "My power grows even now," he announced, lifting his jack-o-lantern face heavenward. "I call all who are mine to my side! Come to me, my little ones, and help me to wipe this planet clean once more!"  
  
Peck reared back, surprise wiping away his smug smile. "But-but it was I who released you," he protested. "I who...."  
  
"Silence, thing of flesh!" Samhaine roared, backhanding him away.  
  
Ali's sour laugh rang out. "Looks like it's refried, after all," he snorted without fear. "Oh, well."  
  
The nether-lord spun on him furiously, only then noticing the Ghostbusters imprisoned behind the mystic wall. His furious glower became an evil smile. "You," he hissed. His robes flapped once before the breeze died away, leaving a vacuum of silence behind. "I have waited this chance for a very long time. My revenge will be complete." He cast a single glance at Peck, adding "You may be rewarded yet, mortal."  
  
"Enjoy yourself now, pumpkin brain," Peter called with obviously forced bravado. "It's going to be a short vacation for you." He ducked instinctively when one of the translucent spirits dove for him, dashing itself against the energy barricade. "Moron," he muttered, relaxing when it disintegrated without a trace.  
  
Samhaine's smile broadened, long trails of saliva dripping from his teeth. "Flesh things die so well," he stated, regarding the Ghostbusters with glee. He raised a hand, extending one long forefinger in Peter's direction. "Die for me, flesh...." He broke off, a puzzled look replacing the scorn. "What ... what is happening? I feel ... strange."  
  
Peck stared back, as confused as the other. "I don't...."  
  
Light flared from the still open containment unit, it's intensity changing from the moderate glow which had marked the release of Samhain to a nova bright luminance, more glaring than had been the lightning.  
  
"The lock has switched to retract!" Egon gasped, his blue eyes alight with new hope. "It's pulling them back!"  
  
The smaller ghosts, totally immaterial, dissipated instantly, flowing into the containment grid with nary a sound. Samhain screamed as his essence began to thin and elongate, the suction of the open trap inexorably drawing him back. "STOP ... himmm," he commanded, his voice only a feeble thread.  
  
Peck was on his feet in an instant, glancing wildly around the room. His gaze lighted immediately on Stantz, and a single leap brought him onto the platform and to the younger man's side. "YOU FOOL!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "STOP!"  
  
He lashed out, catching Ray on the back of the neck and knocking him into the panel. Ray clung tenaciously to the grid, one hand pressed flat against the scanner, the other bracing his broken ribs. "STOP!" Peck screamed again, this time hitting Ray in the chest with a balled fist before grabbing his arm and yanking furiously.  
  
Thus occupied, neither he nor Ray were in a position to see what was occurring in the rest of the room. As soon as the energy levels had reached full, the shimmering barrier surrounding the rest of the team had started to waver, streamers actually distorting in the direction of the containment unit. Seconds later the nearer side collapsed completely and the Ghostbusters were free.  
  
Without hesitation, Winston went for the nearest target, the frozen Ali. "I'll do it right this time," he snarled, no trace remaining of the guilt he'd felt after their first encounter. His first blow was a fearsome one, a right that slammed the larger man back into the wood workbench. The bones making up Ali's jaw snapped clean, that section of his face deforming innward.  
  
Zeddemore followed him relentlessly, a dark juggernault, his face made almost unrecognizable by hatred. He raised his fist again, bringing it up even before Ali's head had finished rocking from the first punch, the first joint of his middle finger extended to form that deadly configuration known as the 'Eye of the Phoenix." That second and invariably fatal blow was never landed.  
  
When Ali hit the workbench, he was also spun around until he now faced Winston Zeddemore directly. Small eyes bore deep into Winston's own, devoid entirely of emotion or intellect ... or life. Winston hesitated, staring astonished at the long ribbons of energy which streamed upwards out of the black giant's body, briefly resembling the aurora before disappearing into the containment unit.  
  
"So I did do it right the first time," Winston muttered, dismissing the lifeless husk without another thought.  
  
At that very moment, Samhaine howled, again raising a bony arm but this time in the direction of Egon. The lightning flared again, missing Spengler by inches and blasting a six-inch crater in the floor. "You die...." the creature began, and then Halloween's Spirit screamed one last time and vanished, swallowed up by the unit's gleaming maw.  
  
Simultaneous with this came a tortured groan from the laser scan grid, overheated metal and burnt wiring filling the immediate vicinity with the smell of melted plastic and ozone. The grid hissed angrily, spitting flame in all directions, then exploded, a dull but respectable blast that threw both Ray and Peck over the metal guard pole and showered the advancing Ghostbusters with shards. They ducked instinctively, allowing Peck those vital few seconds he needed to spring to his feet and head for the stairs, his dress shoes making slapping noises on the concrete.  
  
Egon, recovering faster than the rest, was after him in an instant, catching up as the fleeing man touched the topmost stair and grabbing a handful of tuxedo. He braced himself awkwardly and pulled; Peck emitted a horrified shriek and flew backwards, tumbling gracelessly down the stairs to land headfirst near the bottom. Egon took a deep breath and followed him down, using the more conventional method of descending one step at a time.  
  
Leaving Peck momentarily to Egon and Egon to the solicitous Janine, Peter made his way to Stantz, who lay sprawled several yards from the containment unit. His face drawn with fear, Peter knelt and lifted Ray carefully, cradling him in one arm, and laying his other hand on the man's hair. He never glanced at the blood dribbling down his own side, though he had to swallow heavily before he could force out the name "Ray?"  
  
Winston, bent over Peter's shoulder, patted Ray's face once, muttering, "I'd better call an ambulance," and straightened, heading for the stairs at a clip. He stepped around Egon and Janine, who were leaning over a prone Walter Peck, then stopped short as a skinny green hand oozed through the cellar floor and latched onto his ankle. He squawked, then shouted "SLIMER!"  
  
The hand emerged more fully, the little ghost dragging himself out of the floor with difficulty. Winston reached down and pulled, getting a handful of slime and the fully appeared entity all in one bundle. "We thought we'd seen the last of you, little buddy!" Winston whooped, hugging the ghost tightly.  
  
Slimer hugged him back, gibbering joyfully and dripping ectoplasm all over the floor. He nodded cheerfully at the others but refused to loose his hold around Winston's neck and made no attempt to fly at all. "Come on upstairs with me," Winston encouraged, starting off again. "I've got to make a phone call." So saying, the two made their way upstairs and disappeared from view.  
  
Peter never noticed the return of his ghostly friend, his whole attention was focussed on the man in his arms, his green eyes wide and shocked. Egon forced himself to his feet and stumbled across the intervening space to Ray's opposite side, then dropped heavily to the ground, Janine seating herself on the steps leading to the containment grid. "Did we lose him?" Spengler asked quietly, taking Ray's right hand in his own. He felt it gently, then wrapped his fingers around the man's white throat. "I've got a pulse," he breathed, answering his own question. "Peter, he's alive."  
  
But Venkman neither answered nor acknowledged the words at all. A tear slipped down his unshaven cheeks, then another; he gazed sightlessly at Ray's swollen face and rocked slightly, breathing through his mouth. Alarmed, Egon gripped Peter's shoulder, giving him a shake. "He's alive," he repeated louder. "Peter, can you hear me?"  
  
Peter's head came up at that, his eyes focussing on Spengler's planed features. He blinked, a last tear escaping his lids. "Alive?" he asked stupidly. "Really?"  
  
"Really, Peter." Spengler squeezed again, then released Peter's shoulder, and lifted Ray's hand to examine it more closely. "The explosion broke his hand again, though," he muttered, frowning. "I only hope it can be repaired this time."  
  
As if answering a cue, Ray's lashes fluttered and then rose. He fixed a dazed look on Peter's ashen face, his eyes widening as memory returned. "Oh, my gosh," he whispered, making a feeble effort at raising his head. "Oh, no ... it ... didn't work." Terror blanked his features then, and his eyes darted from side to side, taking on the look of an animal at bay. "It didn't work," he croaked, struggling in Peter's grip.  
  
"Ray," Venkman began helplessly.  
  
Egon released Ray's hand, using both of his own to cup the man's face and turn it in his direction. "You're safe now," he said firmly, his deep voice projecting sureness and strength. "It's all over."  
  
Ray shook his head. "Can't be," he choked, beginning to cry. "I'm ... s- still alive."  
  
Peter made a noise in his throat and pulled his friend close, wrapping him in the same protective grip he'd used the first time they'd faced Peck's cruelty. "Don't," he begged, his face creased with pain. "Please, Ray, don't."  
  
Egon sat back on his heels, moving one hand to Ray's hair, allowing the other to drop to his side. He turned at a touch to stare up into Janine's silent support. He took smiled his gratitude to her and leaned back against her leg. "Ray, listen to me," he began again. "Peck is dead. Can you understand? Walter Peck is dead."  
  
That caught Peter's notice. He looked up, startled, into Spengler's sad blue eyes. "Dead?" he echoed, turning his head until he could see the still form on the staircase.  
  
Egon nodded. "Broke his neck when he fell," he stated flatly and with absolutely no emotion, whatsoever.  
  
Peter shot him an understanding look but didn't speak, merely held Ray as he had what seemed a lifetime ago, but was in fact only a yesterday past, while the shrill sirens wailed in the distance.  
  
*** 


	11. Chapter 11

" Peter and Ray both spent the night in the hospital, released the next day only after Dr. Moore declared them to be too much trouble to fuss with any longer. Ray, especially, she had wanted to keep for observation; the severe bruising on his chest and abdomen betrayed mild internal injuries and four cracked ribs, two of which were snapped clean through. She'd had to content herself, however, with stitching the cut on his head, putting a cast on his rebroken hand and sternly admonishing him to stay in bed for the next several days or risk her wrath. Having had experience with the woman's wrath during past incidents, Ray gave his word at once, the thought of going home easing some of the tense lines away from his eyes and mouth.  
  
It was two days later that Egon Spengler snapped awake as the first rays of sunlight were streaking through the venetian blinds. He tilted his head, listening, but the room was utterly still and quiet. It was then that he felt it, turning his head into the direction of the skinny green hand which was insistently prodding his shoulder. "What is it, Slimer?" he greeted the little ghost, hitching himself up on his elbow. "Are you all right?"  
  
Slimer nodded, settling himself down on Egon's pillow and fixing the physicist with worried orange eyes. "Slimer's okay," he stated, rubbing his round little tummy with one hand. "Can fly again." He rose several inches into the air, demonstrating this fact, then relit on the pillow, dripping ectoplasm across the linens.  
  
Egon sighed but permitted himself a smile. "That's great, Slimer," he whispered, placing a finger against his lips. "But keep it down, okay? The others are sleeping."  
  
Slimer drooped noticeably. "Peter's not. Peter's maaaad." He formed lips six inches wide and pursed them for a whistle, then changed his mind and snapped his fingers instead. "Peter's downstairs. Peter mad."  
  
"Peter's downstairs?" Egon repeated this blankly. A glance at the clock confirmed the early hour, another at Peter's bed the absence of the psychologist. "Where downstairs?"  
  
"His office." Slimer lifted several inches, hovering over some open books on Egon's nightstand; Egon hurriedly moved them before they could be ruined. "Maaaad."  
  
Egon nodded, reaching automatically for his slippers and robe before gaining his feet. "You'd better stay here, Slimer," he said, patting the little ghost on the head and then wiping his hand on his already ruined spread. "I'll talk to Peter."  
  
"Okay-dokey." Obediently, Slimer returned to the pillow, curling into a small ball and immediately beginning to snore.  
  
Egon made his way down the spiral staircase then through the second floor living quarters by the light of the near dawn. The garage level was dimly lit as well, the only source of illumination coming from the glassed-in enclosure that comprised Peter Venkman's private office. The door was closed but the dull thud of something impacting the wall was clearly audible even through the heavy wood. Egon paused to peek through the window, goggling at the sight of Peter Venkman, clad only in shorts and t- shirt, methodically destroying the room.  
  
He'd obviously gone about it quite systematically, starting in the near corner of the office and working his way around its perimeter. Books and assorted papers were strewn helter-skelter across the carpet, and the hard- backed visitor's chair lay in what amounted to little more than splinters against the far wall. The only thing still in its original position, in fact, was the heavy desk, which remained upright, although several drawers had contributed their contents to the mess on the floor.  
  
Peter, his chest heaving, hurled an autographed copy of Sigmond Freud's On Aphasia, his prized possession, against the bookcase, then bent, picking up the heavy swivel chair from behind the desk and raising it high overhead. His face whitened and Egon hurriedly opened the door and stepped inside, plucking the chair from Peter's hands and replacing it easily on its legs. Peter pressed his hand against his stitched side and collapsed into it, grimacing.  
  
"Feel better?" Spengler asked, leaning one hip against the desk and peering down at Peter's bent head.  
  
Venkman spent several seconds breathing heavily, then looked up, his eyes hooded. "What are you doing here?" he asked in an accusing voice.  
  
Spengler's brows went up. "Effective technique," he commented, brushing his drooping blond hair out of his face. "Strike first, putting the other person on the defensive so that they don't realize that you're the one acting unusual." Peter glowered. "Do you feel better?"  
  
The glower faded into the blithe smile Venkman donned whenever Useful Facade No. 1 didn't work. "Just fine," he remarked, carefully checking his side for evidence of blood. There was none and he leaned back, affecting a casual pose. "Just doing a little redecorating. Guess it's time to call it a night." He made to rise, the glower returning when Egon placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed, sending him back into the depths of the chair.  
  
"Not so fast," the older man ordered. He regarded Venkman for a long time, Peter's glower once again fading, this time into the stony mask which marked Useful Facade No. 3. "You don't look like you got much sleep last night," Egon said more kindly. "Bad dreams?"  
  
Peter's mask slipped ever so slightly. He met the steady blue regard defiantly at first, then a spasm of pain-not-physical crossed his face and he dropped his head. "Yes, I'm having bad dreams," he muttered at last. "Aren't you?"  
  
Spengler nodded. "Every night. What were your dreams about?"  
  
Peter sighed, fixing the far wall with a tight-lipped look. "Just what you might expect," he confessed, swiveling the chair in tiny arcs. "Ray. Us. ... Him."  
  
"Him?" Egon echoed, winning himself a glare.  
  
"Yes, Him," Peter snapped. "P-Peck."  
  
Only someone listening as closely as was Spengler would have been able to detect the slight quiver in that single word. "You dreamed about what happened?"  
  
Peter hesitated, then forced a smile. "You're a lousy psychologist, Dr. Spengler," he commented, returning his gaze to the wall. "You're too obvious."  
  
"But you're an excellent one," Spengler returned, leaning forward. "And you know I only want to help."  
  
Peter sighed again, deeply and from the very pit of his soul. "I don't know if I can handle it this time," he admitted, stilling the chair. "Every time I close my eyes I see Peck's smile, or Ray, hurting so bad." He turned agonized eyes from the wall to the physicist, his shields crumbling away like dust. "I can't take any more," he whispered. "Remembering ... living through ... again."  
  
Egon shifted his seat over until he could grasp the other's shoulder. Peter snagged that hand in a tight grip of his own, his head bowed, his lip scissored between his teeth. "It's over," the blond said soothingly, his own voice trembling. "He's dead -- really dead, this time. There's no way he can ever come back to hurt us again."  
  
Peter laughed humorlessly. "That's a pretty definite statement considering our line of work."  
  
Spengler shrugged. "Possibly, but I don't think so. And even if I'm wrong, even if he does come back, we'll handle him."  
  
"You mean one of you will handle him," Peter muttered bitterly. "I wasn't able to accomplish much against him before. Who's to say I won't be the one to cave in next time?"  
  
"You mean like Ray did?"  
  
That simple statement acted the equivalent of an electric shock, bringing Peter's head up and around, his eyes wintry. "Don't you ever say that again," he grated, freeing his hand from Spengler's. "Ray went through another Halocaust -- and he still came out on top." His lips curved into a small smile. "Ray beat him," he declared proudly. "Against all the odds, he beat him." His shoulders drooped and he pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "More than I can say for myself."  
  
Egon nodded, his own smile fleeting. "Ray did beat Peck," he agreed gravely. "I only wish Ray would see it like that."  
  
Peter, lost in his own musings, frowned puzzledly. "What do you mean? Once he thinks it over..."  
  
"...he'll blame himself for being weak -- again -- and, and guilty for releasing Samhain in the first place."  
  
"But he won," Peter repeated insistently. "His hand isn't broken too badly and he'll make a complete recovery from that beating he took. Heck of a fight, too," he added with another reminiscent smile. "Didn't know he had it in him."  
  
"He didn't." That grim phrase wiped the smile from Peter's lips. Egon replaced his hand on the other's shoulder before going on, more than a touch of regret in his voice. "He was never able to fight like that before; he never had the necessary ... brutality to hold his own against someone like Ali."  
  
They sat quietly for several minutes, Peter again reaching up to grasp the long-fingered hand squeezing his shoulder. Finally, he roused, speaking more to himself than to his friend. "A broken neck," he said quietly. "Peck died too easily. No pain, no suffering. Nothing like I ... like we went through. For crying out loud!" he added, clenching his free hand into a fist. "It was a freaking accident! He never had to pay." The fist came down hard on the cushioned arm of the chair. "I want him to pay for what he did."  
  
"We all do." Spengler crossed his legs at the knee, extending the uppermost one to examine the tip of his leather slipper. "I don't consider myself an ... uncivilized man, but there are things I would do to Walter Peck...." His teeth clenched tight over the name and his eyes flashed sapphire. He broke off and when he continued, his voice was calm again. "But he's gone -- forever. Wiped out like a filthy blot. We're going to all have to be content with that knowledge."  
  
"Because there isn't anything else," Peter finished wearily. "I know." He rocked slightly, stilling the motion almost as soon as it had begun. "Man, was I ever useless this time out. Absolutely helpless. Again. I don't like being helpless."  
  
"I know," sympathetically. "Peter?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
Spengler hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"  
  
The younger man cast him a single glance, and Spengler relaxed upon seeing the altered light in those expressive eyes. "Not at the moment," Peter confessed without embarrassment. "But I will be. Eventually."  
  
Egon tightened his grip on Peter's shoulder. "Tell me what I can do to help you through this -- no matter what it is."  
  
Peter smiled then, warmly. "You're already doing it. Just be there, buddy."  
  
"Always."  
  
Silence descended again, a thick veil, yet neither man was uncomfortable with it; there were none of the make-sounds that often accompanied two men not totally at ease in each other's company. Peter lowered his feet back to the floor and leaned his head against the seat, his casual pose a genuine one this time. "I think Ray is going to be our main problem," he said quietly. "A man doesn't go through what he has for the past two weeks without being scarred ... again."  
  
"The hospital let him go home...." Egon began.  
  
Peter snorted his disdain at that. "With a brand new cast and a bottle of tranquilizers he flushed as soon as he got here. Some therapy."  
  
"You never even filled your prescription," Spengler pointed out wryly. "And at least Ray has an appointment with a staff psychiatrist tomorrow."  
  
Peter snorted again, then lifted his t-shirt warily and poked at the bandages on his side. "He wouldn't even go to group with us," he stated, wincing and pulling down his shirt. "What makes you think he'll talk to a stranger?"  
  
Spengler considered this carefully for a moment. "What do you suggest? I'm certain he won't go back to group; do you think we should ask Dr. Lambert to come here instead? Or do you think this is something you should handle yourself?"  
  
Silence stretched again, less comfortable, this time. Peter shook his head, a sad little smile on his lips, the hunted look back in his eyes. "I can't even help myself," he admitted, brushing vainly at his thick brown hair. "And I...." He glanced up and away again, a furtive move. "I haven't been able to even look at Ray since ... since it all happened."  
  
"Why not?" Spengler demanded, astonished. "As close as you two are...."  
  
"Because he makes me remember!" This last was blurted so abruptly that both men froze, staring at each other in surprise. Peter looked away first, pink tingeing his cheeks. "I can't help it," he mumbled, ashamed. "God help me, looking at him makes me remember, and I can't stand to remember."  
  
A tiny sound from the doorway brought both men around at once, dual expressions of dismay painting blossoming upon finding Ray Stantz standing there, staring at Peter, brown eyes wide and hurt. The swollen bruises decorating his face stood out vividly against skin even whiter than the sling which supported his right arm. He blinked and then backed away hurriedly, a whispered "I'm sorry, Peter," his only words.  
  
Venkman was out of his chair in an instant, and across the room before Stantz could retreat more than the two hobbling steps to the railing. He snagged Ray by the sleeve of his pajamas, holding on as the other attempted at tugging himself loose.  
  
"I didn't mean it, Ray," he groaned desperately. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean it."  
  
But Ray was no fool. He stopped yanking at his sleeve and looked up, offering his friend a very gentle smile. "It's all right, Peter," he said quietly. "I understand." He turned away again and was thus unprepared when Peter, in a sudden action, yanked harder on his sleeve, pulling him around, then wrapped both arms around his friend in a tight hug.  
  
"No, you don't understand," Peter said gruffly, resisting Ray's efforts to pull away. "Not if you think I want you to leave." Ray stopped struggling and Peter pulled him closer yet; he rested his cheek against Ray's auburn hair, having to blink rapidly against unwanted tears.  
  
"I'm sorry, Peter," Ray repeated, his voice muffled against Peter's shoulder. "I'm really sorry."  
  
"Oh, god, Ray." Peter squeezed his eyes tight shut, visibly fighting for control. "God, what did he do to you?"  
  
Stantz freed his left arm and slipped it around Peter's chest. "I'm all right," he said reassuringly. "It's just some bruises. I didn't mean.... I mean, I'm sorry I..."  
  
"...make me remember?" Stantz nodded and Peter wiped quickly at his eyes with one hand, then relocked it around Ray's shoulders, not giving the younger man a chance to back away. "You do make me remember," he conceded, his voice shaking. "Every time I look at you I remember how close I came to losing my best friend. I remember what that slime put you through -- put us both through -- and I'm afraid that it's going to happen again."  
  
Ray had gone utterly still at the first words of this little speech, a shudder working its way through his frame. "It would have been over, Peter," he whispered, turning his face into the dark cotton of Peter's t- shirt. "I wouldn't have had to remember anymore ... I wouldn't be making you hurt."  
  
"The only thing that could hurt me," Peter returned, "is losing the closest thing to a kid brother I've ever had, or not having you come to me when you need to talk, or not ..." He paused, having to clear his throat. "...or not having you around to help me work this through."  
  
"I don't know what good I'm going to be," Ray said quietly, shivering. "I ... I...."  
  
Peter raised his head, directing a sharp look at his friend although all he could see was a mass of tangled hair. "Do you regret your choice this time?" he asked, holding his breath.  
  
But Ray shook his head and the psychologist relaxed, allowing his friend to pull back to address him directly. "I haven't forgotten last time," Stantz stated firmly. "I told you, you were worth it then, Peter. You're ... you're still worth it -- n-no matter what." He dropped his eyes. "It's ... I just wonder if maybe ... I'm not."  
  
"Have no worries on that score, Raymond," Egon stated, coming up behind them. "Peck caught you where you were most vulnerable, and he played on that vulnerability like a maestro. But he made one, very fatal mistake." He took Ray by both shoulders, peering steadily into his face. "Walter Peck mistook your vulnerability for weakness, assuming that if you could be gotten to from one direction, then you had no inner strength -- no way to fight back." He smiled fondly, giving Ray a shake. "In that, he couldn't have been more wrong. You stood up to everything he could dish out, Raymond, took every abuse, bore every hurt ... and you won."  
  
"You did win," Peter echoed proudly. "Beat him permanently. By yourself, at that!"  
  
Stantz shook his head. "Not by myself," he corrected. "It was all your idea, after all." That gained him a puzzled look.  
  
"What was my idea?" Peter inquired suspiciously, scratching his head. "I don't even recall the subject coming up."  
  
Ray grinned crookedly, his swollen lip twisting his mouth up on one side. "Sure you do! When we were taking care of Mr. Lawrence at the Sedgewick. You said...."  
  
Peter's face lit in sudden revelation. "...that what can't be prevented has to be undone!" he declared.  
  
Ray nodded vigorously. "Right! I knew that I couldn't prevent myself from releasing Samhain, so I started thinking on how I could recapture him once I was free of that promise!" In a gesture reminiscent of his old effervescence, Ray punched Venkman on the arm and transferred his grin to an impressed Spengler. "I told you he was a genius."  
  
Instead of a smile, Egon offered his youngest partner a scowl. "You might have takin the time to design in some safeguards," he chided. "If I hadn't wired in a buffering device to your power loop...."  
  
Ray gaped at him, thunderstruck. "That's why it didn't...!"  
  
"Kill you? Yes. You expected it to, though, didn't you?" Egon's scowl moderated to a very stern look and then, at Ray's abashed confusion, into a relived sigh. "Don't ever do that again, Raymond. Safety is of paramount importance when handling electronic equipment."  
  
"I second that," Winston called, descending the rest of the stairs while tying his robe against the morning chill. "What are you three doing up at this hour?" He broke off upon glancing through the windows to Peter's office, his mouth hanging open. "What happened in there?" he demanded, swinging on his colleagues.  
  
Egon swung his arm in a grand circle. "We were doing a little redecorating. Want to help?"  
  
Zeddemore shook his head. "No, thanks. I intend to be sick tomorrow." He jerked his head in Peter's direction. "Get the genius to clean it up."  
  
That brought the thoughts of everyone back to the original subject. Peter basked in his colleagues' attention for a long moment, then permitted his pleased smile to fade. He stared at Ray for a long time and when he spoke again, the solemnity had returned to his voice. "There's still shadows in your face," he pronounced, poetically if not inaccurately. Ray looked away, pausing when the psychologist grabbed his good wrist. "Promise me three things."  
  
Ray nodded, but Peter waited until the younger man looked up, tentatively seeking Peter's eyes, before continuing. "Promise me you won't shut me out on this. Promise me that you won't hurt alone. And promise me that you won't make me hurt alone."  
  
Ray hesitated, then nodded once. "I promise...." He licked his lips, adding, "I promise to try."  
  
Peter smiled again. "Good boy. We've got a long road ahead of us and I'd hate to have to kick your butt at this late date."  
  
"If I can take Ali," Ray retorted with justifiable pride, "I can take you."  
  
Peter arched a brow at his blond companion. "Got cocky, didn't he, Egon? One little fight...."  
  
"One heck of a fight," Spengler corrected him, dancing in place. "We're going to have to develop your footwork, Raymond. That overgrown lout should have never been able to lay a hand on you."  
  
"His footwork is fine," Winston interrupted, making two fists and taking a practice jab at the air. "You got to learn to keep that left high, kid. Like this."  
  
"The road just picked up a few potholes," Peter grumbled, involuntarily chuckling at the unlikely sight of Spengler and Zeddemore, dancing in a circle and trading mock blows. He nudged Ray with his elbow. "But you know what?"  
  
"What Peter?" Ray asked, laughing.  
  
Peter grinned. "I love every single crack."  
  
*** 


End file.
